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T U 






The 

Young Tentmaker 


By Youel B. Mirza 


IRAN AND THE IRANIANS 
WHEN I WAS A BOY IN PERSIA 
MYSELF WHEN YOUNG 
CHILDREN OF THE HOUSETOPS 
SON OF THE SWORD 
THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 









The 

Young Tentmaker 


By -y 

Youel B. Mirza 

M 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY 

WILFRED JONES 



0 > > 

» » 

Boston New York 


Lothrop, Lee and Shepard Company 

1935 



\) 










■M«f? 


a 


Copyright, 1935, by 


LOTHROP, LEE AND SHEPARD COMPANY 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be re¬ 
produced in any form without permission in writing 
from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes 
to quote brief passages in connection with a review 
written for inclusion in magazine or newspaper. 


Published, October, 1935 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OP AMERICA 


©CIA 


88089 



This is the story of Omar , the Persian hoy , who 
was horn to the trade of tentmaker , hut who became 
the foremost scholar of his age and one of the great 
poets of all time. It is also the story of Nizam and 
Hassan , his schoolfellows , whose destinies were to he 
so curiously intertwined. Although Nizam and Has¬ 
san rose to high positions in the kingdom and wrote 
their deeds into history , they are remembered now 
because they went to school with Omar Khayyam. 















CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 


I 

IN THE STREETS OF NAISHA- 
PUR 

3 

II 

THE TENT SHOP 

23 

III 

WORLDLY HOPE 

40 

IV 

THE GOLDEN GRAIN 

55 

V 

THE HOUSE OF THE IMAM 

71 

VI 

THE SEED OF WISDOM 

80 

VII 

THE DARK ANGEL 

90 

VIII 

THE POTTER'S HOUSE 

101 

IX 

THE HOLY ROAD TO KERB EL A 

114 

X 

THE PROPHET'S PARADISE 

131 

XI 

THE FIELD OF NIGHT 

144 

XII 

KERBA OMAR 

155 

XIII 

THE FIRE OF SPRING 

164 

XIV 

THE MOVING FINGER WRITES 

179 


ix 



The 

Young Tentmaker 




CHAPTER I 

IN THE STREETS OF NAISHAPUR 

The glorious Persian sun had risen from behind 
the silent mountains, and had scattered before it the 
mist that had fallen heavily upon the fields and the 
housetops of Naishapur. Out of respect to the king 
of the heavens, the golden-throated nightingale, that 
nested in a tall chinnar tree in an old cemetery near 
the northern gate of the town, had now ceased her 
lovely melodies, and was flying about in search of 
food. The wind was blowing softly, vibrating the 
leafy branches of the chinnar tree, and on a tiptop 
twig the small nest containing several young night¬ 
ingales waved gently back and forth. 

3 






THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 

The baby nightingales were chirping hungrily. 
The strongest of the brood, having decided now that 
it had been cared for long enough by its parents, 
emerged upon the ridge of the nest, slowly made its 
way to a small branch and hopped out of sight. The 
disappearance of the young nightingale created much 
excitement among the other inhabitants of the nest, 
and the chirping and screaming was heard by three 
boys standing under the tree. They looked through 
the leafy screen and descried the bag-shaped nest 
swinging against the blue sky. 

“A nightingale’s nest,” cried Hassan, estimating 
with his eye the strength of the limb that bore the 
nest upon its farthest branch. “I believe we can get 
it with all the little birds.” 

“Let them alone,” said Omar, as Hassan began to 
remove his sandals to climb the tree. 

“Why, by the beard of my grandfather,” ex¬ 
claimed Hassan, “nightingales bring a good price! 
We can take the nest and all the young birds to the 
bazaar and sell them.” 

“But we should not disturb them,” argued Omar 
thoughtfully, “for Khoda has created birds and ani¬ 
mals as He has created us. No, no, let the baby 
nightingales go free, for who knows why Khoda has 
made them?” 

“There is a law, you know, forbidding the taking 
of nightingales,” prudently said Nizam. 

“Ho,” laughed Hassan, “if the law did not close, 

4 


IN THE STREETS OF NAISHAPUR 
its eyes how could the nightingale dealers keep shop? 
Besides, is not my grandfather the law in Naisha¬ 
pur?” 

u But what Omar says is good, and we should not 
disturb the nest. Even if you are not afraid of the 
law, it would be a disgrace for the governor’s grand¬ 
son to rob a nightingale’s nest.” 

That argument had weight, for young Hassan was 
proud of his family’s rank. He abandoned for the 
time his plan of selling the little birds, and the boys 
walked away to the cemetery, which had housed 
many important citizens of Naishapur in the past 
hundreds of years. The three friends found a group 
of boys sitting on the flat tombstones in the tangled 
grass. One was reading aloud the record of a de¬ 
parted soul: 

“Hamza, the tentmaker, the son of Ali, upon whose 
soul be peace.” 

Omar looked at the tombstone. It covered none 
other than the grave of his grandfather, whose trade 
had descended to his father and himself. Omar’s 
face lost its genial appearance, and at once his mood 
changed to deep seriousness. Had not his grand¬ 
father once seen the sunrise and the sunset, and 
watched the moon waxing and waning? Now he was 
in the earth, his sleep undisturbed by the voices of 
the boys playing on his tombstone. But the thought¬ 
ful mood did not last long, for the excited shouts of 
the other boys drew Omar’s attention to a dog fight, 

5 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
and, as he watched the battle, he forgot that his 
grandfather had ever lived. 

A big yellow dog had stolen a sheep bone from a 
butcher’s stall near the town gate, and was quickly 
devouring it, with one eye on the boys and the other 
fixed in the direction of a great lean dog that was 
also lurking near the butcher’s stall, in the hope of 
making off with a bone. While the yellow dog cen¬ 
tered his attention on a tendon that was hard to tear 
loose, the lean dog edged nearer and made a leap 
upon him. Then a furious fight ensued for the pos¬ 
session of the bone. Hair began to fly and blood to 
flow. The yellow dog was thrown flat on a tomb¬ 
stone, but struggled to rise again and began chok¬ 
ing his enemy. The lean dog tore himself free, and 
grabbed an ear of the yellow dog, almost chewing it 
off. Then, not being satisfied with that, he fiercely 
grabbed his adversary by the neck, flung him down on 
the tombstone again, and slit his throat with his 
sharp teeth. 

The boys watched this gleefully, for no boy 
would disturb a fight between two strange dogs. 
Soon the yellow dog lay on his back, with twitch¬ 
ing legs and muscles, while the victorious brute picked 
up the bone and walked contentedly to a shady place 
under a walnut tree. Here he started cracking the 
bone with his powerful jaws, and eating the marrow. 

“He deserves another bone for that fight!” cried 
one of the boys. 


6 


IN THE STREETS OF NAISHAPUR 

Hassan added, “I like to see dog or man take what 
he wants.” 

“By killing?” observed Omar, who felt sorry for 
the dying dog. 

“Why not?” retorted Hassan. “If the lean dog 
had merely looked on and wished for the bone he 
would still have an empty stomach.” 

“But men are not dogs,” said Nizam, looking 
thoughtfully at the yellow dog, now stiffening in 
death. 

A robin pulled a struggling worm from the moist 
earth at the foot of a willow tree, but its triumph 
was short, for a cat, stealthily crawling through the 
low-hanging willow branches, pounced upon the bird, 
and silenced its frightened cry with sharp teeth upon 
its throat. 

“Must every creature fight for its life?” mused 
Omar, as the boys wandered through the cemetery, 
passing a stray ass that was picking the grass round 
some one’s tomb, and stamping its hoofs on the flat 
stone. 

Beyond the gate of the town lay the wheatfields 
where the farmers were keeping watch with wooden 
rattles to scare away the hungry birds from the 
newly planted grain. They had plowed their fields 
and had sown the wheat by their own hands in the 
fertile ground, and now they watched to see that the 
golden grain was not picked up by crows and black¬ 
birds. 


7 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 

“Khoda will send the rain in due time,” said one, 
“and the wheat will begin to take root in the ground 
and will be protected from the red eyes of the black¬ 
birds.” 

“Inshallah (by the grace of God),” added his 
neighbor in the next field, “the wheat will be plentiful 
this season.” 

While these good husbandmen were pausing for 
a moment’s greeting, with their speech and thoughts 
centered on their treasure buried in the ground, they 
became aware of the approach of several boys scuf¬ 
fling along the dusty road, whistling and playing. 
They knew the lean, barefoot boy in the lead, walk¬ 
ing with two better dressed companions. 

“Oh, young tentmaker,” one of the farmers hailed 
him, “if you see any black crows in the fields scratch¬ 
ing the earth, throw a stone at them.” 

“Why?” responded Omar quickly. “Khoda has 
created the birds, and in the name of Khoda they 
will find food to eat.” 

“But they should not eat our wheat!” cried the 
indignant farmer. “We have sown the seed and we 
are praying for it to grow, and Khoda will see to it 
that we have an abundance of good grain.” 

“Khoda has his plans,” said Omar, “and no one 
can change them. The birds are Khoda’s creatures, 
too. Let them eat and enjoy themselves.” And he 
walked on. 

“That is a wild chicken,” said one of the men. 

8 


IN THE STREETS OF NAISHAPUR 

“There is not a boy in Naishapur that can talk as 
he does.” 

Meantime the boys had turned back to the town, 
seeking further adventure in the busy streets. They 
sauntered slowly toward the bazaars, passing the 
high-walled court of the great Juma Masj id, the 
Friday Mosque, named for the holy day of Moham¬ 
med and dedicated to the worship of Khoda, whose 
prophet Mohammed was. The gateway of the mosque 
was set with shining tiles that glittered in the sun, 
and the gate stood open, giving a glimpse of the tree- 
shaded court and the sparkling pool, in which wor¬ 
shipers bathed hands and feet before entering the 
house of God. 

As the boys paused to look within the court, there 
emerged from the mosque an imposing and serious 
figure, dressed in flowing robes, with a high green 
turban of many folds covering his head. By his ap- 
pearance, the boys knew he was a holy man and of 
the lineage of Mohammed, for only the descend¬ 
ants of the Prophet might wear the green turban. 
They became quiet and obedient in the great pres¬ 
ence. 

“ Khob , Jchob (well, well),” said the holy man, 
greeting the boys with a kindly twinkle in his eyes, 
“what has the day brought? Khoda be praised, you 
have not been in any mischief?” 

“No mischief, most learned of men,” answered 
Nizam respectfully. “We have only been passing 

9 


THE YOUNG TENT MAKER 
the afternoon looking on at what is happening about 
us.” 

“And what have you learned?” 

This puzzled the boys, but Omar remembered his 
thoughts in the graveyard, and answered the ques¬ 
tion bashfully. 

“We have learned that life is nothing but strug¬ 
gle. Two dogs were fighting, and one killed the other 
on account of a bone. The birds are flying about to 
pick up worms, and we saw a cat catch a bird while 
it was getting a worm. In the fields the farmers are 
killing the birds because they eat the grain. Tell 
us, most holy man, does Khoda will that in order to 
live we must take the life of other creatures?” 

The holy man began stroking his beard in great 
contemplation. What manner of boy was this who 
asked such questions? 

“Whose son art thou?” he inquired. 

“I am Omar, the son of Ibrahim, the tentmaker.” 

“Can you make tents?” 

“I can help my father wrap the thread on the big 
spool, and I can do some of the weaving myself.” 

“Khob, hhob , how many years do you have?” 

“My head does not know.” 

“How many years have you been studying the 
Koran?” 

No one had ever asked Omar that before, and he 
gravely considered and finally said, “Nine.” 

“Then you must be thirteen or fourteen. You ask 
wise questions for your age.” 

10 


IN THE STREETS OF NAISHAPUR 

“If I ask wise questions at my age, then you at 
your age must be able to answer me,” said Omar, 
gaining confidence as the bright eyes under the green 
turban looked kindly into his. 

“Yes, yes, I may be able to answer you this and 
many more questions some day, when we have both 
passed beyond this life. So you are the young tent- 
maker, trying to understand the workings of the 
universe. Who is your teacher?” 

“I go to the schoolmaster no more,” said Omar. 
“My father keeps me busy at the loom now. He has 
used the last of his yarn and thread and that is why 
I have this day to play.” 

“A boy like you should be in school. The Koran 
will answer many of your questions. I will come to 
your father’s tentshop to talk with him about your 
future.” And the holy man departed on his way, 
walking in stately fashion. 

“Who is this holy man?” asked Hassan, much 
impressed by the dignity of the retreating figure. 

“He is Imam Mowaffak, the chief teacher in the 
Madrassa,” responded Nizam. “They say he is the 
most learned man in Iran. My father is his friend, 
and has sent me here to school in the hope that I 
may study under him sometime. He does little teach¬ 
ing now, for his is growing old, but it is said that 
whoever studies under him achieves great success.” 

Omar’s eagle eyes became wider than ever. How 
much would such a man not know? 

“I shall study under him!” cried Hassan. “My 

11 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
grandfather’s influence is great, and no one can 
refuse him anything. But this great teacher would 
not teach you, Omar. Your father is only a tent- 
maker, and scholars do not come from tentshops. 
You will be making tents all your life, just as your 
father and his father’s fathers have done before him 
for generations.” 

The other boys thought that Hassan was precipi¬ 
tating a fight, but Omar only sorrowfully turned his 
face from Hassan to look at the distant figure of the 
teacher as he disappeared from view. The young 
tentmaker wondered if the great man had been in 
earnest about visiting the tentshop. 

The boys moved slowly onward down the street. 
They reached the bazaars and wandered aimlessly 
here and there, for there was much activity to en¬ 
tertain them and many things to see. Suddenly a 
clear, melodious sound fell upon the confusion of the 
market place. A voice was heard from the minaret 
of the Juma Masj id, calling every man to prayer. 

“ La-Allahi-El Allah , La-Allahi-El Allah! Mo¬ 
hammed rozul Allah! Hayya alal falah , hayya alal 
falah /” came the sonorous tones of the azan giver. 
“There is only one God, there is only one God. 
Mohammed is the prophet of God. Come here and 
be forgiven. Come here and be forgiven!” 

A great quietness prevailed everywhere. Even the 
caravan leaders bowed their heads in response to the 
call to prayer. A pious man spread his prayer rug 

12 


IN THE STREETS OF NAISHAPUR 
in the street and knelt down upon it and prayed 
earnestly. A fruit seller was torn between his devo¬ 
tions and anxiety for his wares when he saw the group 
of boys approaching. He kept watch out of one eye 
over his fruits, while pretending to offer supplica¬ 
tion to Khoda, but neither his divided attention nor 
his half-hearted prayers saved him from loss. As the 
boys passed by his stall, Hassan snatched a long 
cucumber. 

“Thief!” hissed the boy next to him, as they 
crossed the street. 

“You are worse than a thief,” said Nizam, with 
a frown of disapproval. “You stole the poor man’s 
goods while he was occupied in his devotion to 
Khoda.” 

Hassan simply shrugged his shoulders. “ Khob , 
I am enjoying the cucumber anyway.” 

A caravan of a hundred camels was making its 
way toward the great caravanserai of Shapur. The 
camels were keeping step with the jingle of the bells 
that hung from their necks. The caravan bashie was 
perched on a great camel, which carried the largest 
bell of all and was decorated with tassels of many 
colors. 

“Make way, make way!” shouted the caravan 
bashie, as his camel almost tramped on one of the 
boys. 

“I wonder where these camels come from,” re¬ 
marked Omar. “How proud they seem, and how 

13 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
important their leader is! When I am a man I would 
like to go on a journey to see the marvelous things 
travelers tell of.” 

“They will make you work if you join a caravan,” 
said Hassan, between bites of the stolen cucumber. 
“Loading and unloading camels is not an easy task.” 

The caravan meandered its way through the ba¬ 
zaars, turning this way and that, and by and by 
met another long caravan making its way to the 
great Maidan Khana. Naishapur was a center of 
commerce, and caravans came from Bagdad, Ispahan 
and Samarkand, and from China and India, to sell 
and buy merchandise and carry back with them the 
precious turquoises for which Naishapur was famous. 

The boys followed the caravan. The tinkling of 
the camel bells charmed them and urged them on in 
the wake of the beasts of the desert. Now they 
passed the shops containing brass work from Ispahan, 
shops where shining glazed pots, made by the finest 
potters of Naishapur, were displayed, and the stalls 
of the jewelers and money changers, who sold brace¬ 
lets and necklaces of the finest gold and silver wire, 
fashioned of the rare metals obtained from the gold 
fields of Samarkand and the silver mines of Mezan- 
deran. 

Now they passed the nightingale shops. The little 
stalls had cages and cages of Persian singers in 
captivity, waiting to be sold. The greatest of the 
nightingale dealers was old Monuf. The cages that 

14 


IN THE STREETS OF NAISHAPUR 
contained his birds were more beautiful and elaborate 
than all the others. They were made of finest walnut 
wood and carved with delicate tools by skillful wood 
carvers. One cage was an exact miniature of the great 
palace of King Shapur, for whom Naishapur was 
named. This wonderful cage held the Sultan, the 
king of all Monuf’s nightingales. 

Hassan was curious to learn the price of the 
nightingales, and stopped to question Monuf. 

“O grandson of my gracious patron,” said the 
shrewd old dealer, recognizing Hassan, “the price 
of this one is five pieces of silver. His song is sweeter 
than the music of King David’s harp. But, since you 
are the grandson of Hadji Mukhtar, the governor, 
you may have him for only half what I ask. And 
this is the great Sultan, the king of all singers. He 
sings not only at night, but in the daytime as well, 
and his golden throat is never closed. He can charm 
hawks and eagles and no bird or beast will ever harm 
him, once it has heard him sing.” 

“Now what do you ask for him?” cried Hassan. 

“Twenty-five pieces of silver, and Khoda knows 
I am giving him away.” 

“ Khob , Jchob” exclaimed Hassan as his eyes fell 
upon a few little nightingales. Now he became much 
interested. 

“What about these?” 

“They are very young,” answered the dealer, 
“and one can not tell which of them might become 

15 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
the Sultan of my shop, but, I assure you, you will 
not be disappointed in any of them. I have not sold 
a young nightingale yet that did not turn out to be 
a fine singer.” 

“How much do you ask for them?” 

“One piece of silver each.” 

Hassan studied for a moment, then, since Omar 
and Nizam and the other boys had moved on to 
view the shop of Ameen, the master wood carver, he 
left Monuf and his nightingales and walked toward 
his companions. 

The sun was now declining toward the west, and 
all the boys were tired and thirsty. A welcome song 
fell on their ears as a man came through the bazaars, 
carrying a goatskin slung over his shoulder and an 
earthenware cup hanging from his girdle. 

“Water, water, who wants water? Quench your 
thirst with my fresh water from the river Wadi.” 

“I wonder how much he will ask for a little drink?” 
thought Omar. He had no money but one copper 
penny. 

The water carrier came closer, shouting, “Water, 
water! Quench your thirst with fresh water from 
the river Wadi.” 

Omar looked at him wistfully. “How much for 
a drink?” 

“One copper without the cup, and two coppers 
with the cup.” 

Omar cupped his hands and the water carrier 

16 


IN THE STREETS OF NAISHAPUR 
filled them with good water. Hassan approached 
next. Being the son of a wealthy father, he used the 
water carrier’s cup and paid him two coppers. 

“Khoda knows how fine this water tastes,” said 
Omar. 

“Have another drink,” urged the water carrier, 
now serving the other boys. 

“No, I have no more coppers.” 

“In the name of Khoda,” cried the genial water 
seller, “here is a cupful! Drink it.” And Omar took 
the cup and emptied it, smacking his hps, but the 
taste was different. 

“Khoda knows,” he told Hassan and Nizam, “I 
have made a discovery.” 

“What is that?” cried Hassan. 

“Water tastes sweeter from your hands than from 
a clay cup.” And they all laughed at him. 

But Nizam tried the experiment for himself, by 
taking a drink from his hands as Omar had done, 
and behold Omar was right! 

“This is a puzzle,” observed Nizam. “Will some 
scholar one day explain this to us?” 

There were several women now approaching from 
the direction of one of the bathhouses. The boys 
saw them coming. 

“Be quiet,” said Hassan. “One of these ladies is 
my mother.” 

“How can you tell?” asked another boy. “Are 
they not all dressed alike?” 

17 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 

“Yes, but the one with the red slippers is my 
mother.” 

The veiled ladies passed, and the one wearing the 
red slippers gave a glance toward Hassan. 

“Did I not tell you it was my mother?” exclaimed 
Hassan. “She wishes me to come home.” And Has¬ 
san followed the ladies, as an obedient son to whom 
his mother’s merest gesture was law. But once out 
of sight, around a turn in the street, he made off 
quickly in another direction, and hastened to the 
old clninnar tree by the graveyard, congratulating 
himself upon the chance that had enabled him to 
slip away from his companions. 

All afternoon the idea of stealing the nightingale’s 
nest had been in his mind. He had to do it stealthily, 
to avoid disgrace and punishment, for his grand¬ 
father would surely mete out a double whipping if 
word came to his ears that Hassan had been caught 
robbing a nightingale’s nest. 

Soon Hassan was standing under the chinnar tree, 
like a cat looking for its prey. There was no one 
about, and he pulled himself up into the tree. He 
climbed and climbed. A few branches broke, and 
once he almost fell to the ground. But have the 
nest he must. He finally reached almost the top of 
the tree. Slowly he got hold of the branch which held 
the nest. Very carefully he pulled it toward him, 
until the nest with its chirping little nightingales was 

18 


IN THE STREETS OF NAISHAPUR 
within his reach. He broke the stem and held the 
nest in his hand. Eagerly, in his precarious perch, 
he counted the birds, not being able to wait until he 
had reached the ground. 

“Praise to Khoda,” he cried, “there are five of 
them! I can have several pieces of silver to spend 
as I like.” 

Painfully he made his way to the ground, cling¬ 
ing to the branches with one hand while holding 
the nest in the other. Now he was free and the baby 
nightingales were in his possession. Hastily he hid 
them in his wide sleeve, half smothering them, and, 
looking neither right nor left, for fear that some 
one might recognize him, he made his way through 
the cemetery and finally through the bazaars until 
he reached Monuf’s shop. He was relieved to see 
that few people lingered in the bazaars, for it was 
near sunset, and soon the drum would beat to signal 
the closing of the shops for the night. 

The little nightingales, from fright, made not the 
slightest sound, and no one could guess that Hassan 
had the nest muffled in the folds of his sleeve. But 
he entered the nightingale dealer’s shop very sheep¬ 
ishly. No one was there but old Monuf, dozing 
among his captive singers. At once, without any 
formality, Hassan displayed the five baby birds. 
Monuf’s eyes twinkled, for nightingales were not 
easily captured. Business was business, even with the 
nightingale dealers, and he began bargaining with 

19 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
Hassan. He knew that Hassan’s action would be 
displeasing to his grandfather, if he should find 
him out. 

“Your nightingales are too young,” he said, “and 
they may not live long in captivity. What price do 
you want for them?” 

“In the name of Khoda, I shall ask only half what 
you ask for your young birds.” 

“No, no, not for me. Take them to another 
dealer.” And Monuf waved the nest away. 

“I am your sacrifice,” pleaded Hassan, anxious to 
have the transaction done with. “I brought these 
especially to you.” 

“You should not have taken those little nightin¬ 
gales. It was a very wrong thing for a boy of your 
position to do. I believe I shall tell your grandfather 
about it when he passes my shop to-morrow. I have 
never seen such a rascal as you. Now, what will you 
take for them?” 

“Anything you might offer me, only do not tell 
my grandfather,” begged Hassan, wishing that the 
nest and all the young nightingales were still in the 
top of the chinnar tree. 

“I shall give you one piece of silver for nest and 
all, and shall keep the business secret from your 
grandfather,” said the dealer. 

Hassan fairly threw the nightingales at Monuf, 
took the silver coin, and disappeared from the shop. 
He cast a furtive glance about, fearful that one of 

20 


IN THE STREETS OF NAISHAPUR 
his young friends might see him coming from the 
nightingale dealer, but he saw no one he knew. The 
boys had all felt an inner call to supper, and each 
had gone to his own home. 

“Well, young tentmaker,” asked Omar’s father as 
his son entered the gate at sunset, “where have you 
been all this day?” 

“I have been with Hassan and Nizam.” 

“What business do you have with those boys? 
They are the sons of rich parents.” 

“Nizam likes me, and what Hassan thinks of me 
I do not care.” 

“But Hassan’s good will might be valuable. His 
grandfather can make officials and take their offices 
away from them on the same day.” 

“He may be able to do that, but he can not make 
tents,” said Omar. 

“Yes, thanks to Khoda,” answered his father, 
“our livelihood does not depend upon him.” 

“I also met a great teacher,” added Omar. “Nizam 
told me he was the wisest man of Iran, and there is 
nothing he does not know.” 

“What was his appearance?” 

“He was tall, dressed in long flowing robes and a 
high green turban, and his eyes were very bright.” 

“Ah, I know him by sight. He is the great Imam 
Mowaffak, and no one can dispute his word, not even 
the king.” 


21 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 

“He talked to me and said that he would come 
to our tentshop to see us,” announced Omar eargerly. 

“By the grace of Khoda!” cried the tentmaker 
in astonishment, never hoping that such an honored 
man would condescend to visit his place of business. 
He looked at his son closely. 

“Now, son, as you are a Persian boy, you know 
there is nothing more important than telling the 
truth. Did the Imam really speak to you?” 

“Khoda knows I am telling the truth. One day 
he will come to our shop.” 

The moon rose over the housetops. The nightin¬ 
gales were singing in the branches, but one of the 
best singers did not join the melodious chorus. His 
golden notes were changed to piteous cries as he flew 
distractedly about the tall chinnar tree by the ceme¬ 
tery. He and his mate were now without a home and 
without a family. They left the chinnar tree that 
night and were heard no more in the neighborhood 
where the tragedy had occurred. 

Naishapur slept peacefully under the moon, but 
there was one restless sleeper. Hassan tossed about 
on his soft bed, tormented by secret fear that after 
all some one had seen him steal the nightingale’s 
nest, or that old Monuf would not keep his promise 
of silence. Across the town, in the tentmaker’s house, 
young Omar was dreaming of the wise man whom he 
had met that day. 



CHAPTER II 
THE TENTSHOP 

The dwelling of Ibrahim, the tentmaker, was 
only a few steps from the north gate of Naishapur. 
The one-story house was enclosed by a mud wall 
eight feet high, with a gateway opening into the 
narrow street. The gate had heavy double doors 
made of the hard wood of a walnut tree that once 
had shaded the tentmaker’s yard. The doors were 
hung on iron hinges, and on the right-hand door 
was a large ring made of iron, which was used as a 
knocker. On the inside a wooden latch slipped 
through iron bars and made a secure lock, shutting 

23 




THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
out the world from the seclusion of the courtyard. 

The dwelling housed the family of five, Ibrahim, 
his wife, two daughters, and the young Omar, and 
also all the implements that were used in the mak¬ 
ing of tents. In the summer, the loom was set in the 
yard, under an old cherry tree, and in winter it was 
moved back into the house, where a place was pre¬ 
pared for it under the skylight in the center of the 
one big room. 

Ibrahim’s business had been good. “Ah, if I did 
not have to buy so much wool and cotton my worries 
would come to an end,” he said. “I need much black 
yarn, fine linen thread, and silk for tassels, for this 
tent must be the best I have ever made.” 

“For whom is the tent?” asked Omar. 

“It is for Hassan’s grandfather. He gave me the 
order two moons ago, and wants it by the first day 
of summer, when he moves his family to the cool 
banks of the river. The tent must be big enough to 
house the whole family comfortably, and fine enough 
to suit his rank. We must have the best wool and 
cotton.” 

“The caravan that entered the northern gate yes¬ 
terday was loaded with wool,” said Omar. 

“Yes, I saw it, too, and I am going to the market 
this morning to see what I can do.” 

“May I go with you?” cried the young tent- 
maker. 

“Yes, son, you may as well begin early to learn how 

24 


THE TENTSHOP 

to buy, for buying good material is just as important 
in making tents as the weaving.” 

Ibrahim took Tiza, his donkey, from the stable 
adjoining the house, and Omar placed some hay un¬ 
der the old cherry tree. Then he brought out the 
woven saddle and placed it on the back of the animal. 
He tightened the ropes by giving them a hard pull, 
with his left foot braced against the side of the don¬ 
key, as he had seen his father do. Next he brought 
out the bridle and attempted to put it on, but this 
interfered with the donkey’s feeding, and he shook his 
head back and forth and sidewise, refusing to let 
Omar bridle him. 

“Son, what are you trying to do?” said Ibrahim, 
as he saw Omar struggling with the animal. 

“I am trying to put the bridle on. It seems the 
donkey does not want to go to the market place.” 

Ibrahim approached the donkey, held its neck 
under his strong left arm, and with his right hand 
pushed the bit between the donkey’s jaws. Now they 
were ready for their short journey. 

“Get on the donkey, if you wish to ride,” said 
Ibrahim. 

Omar put his foot through the rope that fastened 
the saddle to the body of the animal, but, before he 
could mount, the saddle slipped to one side and he 
fell to the ground. Ibrahim gave a hearty laugh as 
he helped Omar to rise from the ground, and told him 
the story of a man, who, though with good intentions, 

25 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
was never succesful in anything he undertook, be¬ 
cause he did not take time to see that his work was 
well done. Ibrahim straightened the saddle, gave 
the rope several twists, and tried to push his fingers 
between the ropes and the sides of the donkey, to 
see that the saddle was firmly placed. 

“Now, mount,” said Ibrahim, and Omar was on 
the donkey’s back without any mishap. 

With Ibrahim leading the way, and Omar on the 
back of the faithful Tiza, the little party slowly made 
its way to the wool and cotton bazaars. They passed 
old Monuf’s nightingale shop. Ibrahim took a glance 
at the caged nightingales and turned away in dis¬ 
gust. 

“What a shame, what a shame,” he said, “to im¬ 
prison the most beloved of all singers in such 
fashion!” 

In the great Maidan Khana, the public square, 
men were unpacking loads of wool in its natural 
colors of white, black and brown, with here and 
there a bag of fluffy, light-brown fleece that was 
camel’s hair. Ibrahim fastened his donkey to one 
of the wooden posts of a wool dealer’s stall, and 
Omar dismounted to follow his father. 

“ Khob , Jchob, Master Ibrahim, you have come on 
my eye,” said the wool dealer. “May the boy’s head 
be blessed. Is he yours?” 

“Khoda be praised,” responded Ibrahim, “he is 
mine.” 


26 


THE TENTSHOP 

“He is a bright-looking lamb. If you send him to 
school he may even become a great hakim; who 
knows?” 

Omar’s eyes twinkled. Could he hope to be known 
some day as Hakim Omar of Naishapur, who could 
discuss with learned men on profound subjects? 
Truly, he might cherish such an ambition if he 
might only become the pupil of the great teacher 
whom he had met coming from the Juma Masj id. 

“ Kliob , how goes the tentmaking business?” 
queried the wool dealer, when they had exchanged 
the complimentary greetings that led gradually to 
the business at hand. 

“It goes well,” spoke Ibrahim. “No one owes me 
anything, and I owe no one. I sell for cash and I 
pay cash when I buy.” 

“Ah, you do not believe in giving credit?” 

“No, giving credit makes me lose sleep. I would 
rather sell my tents for less and have the money in 
my hand than to wait on the promise of a greater 
price, for sometimes such promises are not kept.” 

“Well said,” responded the wool dealer. “Since 
you are that kind of man, my price to you will be 
cheaper.” 

“How much for this basket of wool?” asked Ibra¬ 
him, turning to a large basket heaped high with 
fine black goat’s hair, which the caravan had 
brought from the distant mountain valleys of Kash¬ 
mir. 


27 


THE YOUNG TENT MAKER 

“I ask five pieces of silver, and you may visit 
other wool dealers and, if they can sell you wool 
equally as good as mine and cheaper, my feelings 
will not be hurt if you buy from them. But before 
you visit other dealers examine my wool. This comes 
from Kashmir, where they breed the finest goats in 
the world.” 

Omar felt the soft fleece, too, as his father examined 
the wool, pulling a bit between his fingers to test its 
resilience. 

“I take your word for it, and I shall need three 
baskets. Here is the money.” 

Ibrahim took out his purse and counted the coins. 
The dealer counted them, too, as a matter of for¬ 
mality. He knew that Ibrahim was a good and 
honest man, and he did not question the value of the 
coins that came from the tentmaker’s purse. 

Omar helped his father load the donkey with the 
baskets of wool. 

“Khoda keep this boy and make him a learned 
man,” said the wool dealer, as they prepared to de¬ 
part. “Mark what I tell you, in all my travels, 
and I have traveled far and wide, I have not seen a 
boy that had the thoughtful face of this boy of 
yours.” 

Omar said nothing, only looked bashfully at the 
ground, pretending that he was not hearing the 
merchant praising him so highly, but Ibrahim 
smiled proudly. 

“Khoda give you prosperity and peace,” he said 

28 


THE TENTSHOP 

to the wool dealer. “In the name of Khoda, we may 
do business again.” 

Next they visited the cotton dealers, to whom the 
caravans from the south had brought baskets of 
white fluff, the first cotton harvest of the season. 
Soon the donkey had another load to carry, for 
Ibrahim was well known in the market place as a 
shrewd buyer who paid cash, and there was never 
any waste of time bargaining with him. When the 
baskets of cotton had been tied upon the baskets of 
wool, the faithful donkey appeared to be carrying 
a small mountain, but the load was not heavy for 
all its great bulk, and Tiza plodded patiently along 
after his master to his own courtyard, with Omar 
trailing behind. 

Ibrahim and Omar unloaded the cotton and the 
wool, and turned Tiza free to browse about under the 
cherry tree, where he found a few wisps of hay left 
from his breakfast. Meanwhile the tentmaker was 
busy, washing the wool in big tubs and spreading it 
on the flat housetop to dry in the sunshine. When 
that was done, he fed the cotton to a wooden roller, 
separating the seeds from the fluffy fibers. Omar 
gathered the cotton seeds and gave them to the faith¬ 
ful donkey, who ate them with great relish. 

Next morning Amina, Omar’s mother brought out 
the spinning wheel and placed it under the old cherry 
tree. Then Omar climbed to the housetop and 
gathered up the wool in a basket and carried it 

29 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
down. The wool was dry now, and Amina began 
spinning it by hand into yarn, while Omar’s sisters, 
with their hand spindles, busily spun the cotton into 
strong white thread. Now one spool was finished, 
now another, and within a few days Amina and the 
two daughters of the house had done enough spin¬ 
ning to provide material for Ibrahim and Omar to 
start the operation of the weaving. 

Strong cotton threads were stretched over a big 
frame, about two or three feet wide and six or seven 
feet long. Now very quickly the shuttle, in the hand 
of Ibrahim, shot back and forth between the warp 
threads, while Ibrahim’s cheerful song filled the 
courtyard, in time to the steady thump, thump 
of his feet on the treadle of the loom. When he had 
finished the tentmaker’s song, the shuttle had gone 
many times across the loom, and he started his song 
all over again. Thus the weaving grew, and when 
Ibrahim was tired and paused to rest, or to attend to 
other duties, Omar took his place at the loom. From 
the time he was old enough to work the treadles, he 
had watched his father attentively, and was now able 
to weave almost as quickly as Ibrahim, and sing as 
well the tentmaker’s song: 

My tents travel far and wide, 

They stand under the clear blue shy; 

The rains of heaven can not harm them. 

Dust and sand will not penetrate them. 

30 


THE TENTSHOP 

My tents travel to Samarkand and Bokhara, 

They house rich merchants and holy dervishes; 
Wherever they go, my soul goes with them. 

For I weave my thoughts into their wary and woof. 

There followed busy days in the tentmaker’s yard, 
father and son working constantly at the loom, and 
mother and daughters unceasingly spinning to pro¬ 
vide the yarn and thread for the weaving. There 
was no time for play now. Even on Fridays the 
weaving was not stopped, for Omar worked at 
the loom while Ibrahim went to the mosque to wor¬ 
ship. 

“Khoda be praised,” spoke Ibrahim one day, “our 
work is progressing well!” 

“Has Hassan’s grandfather made any payment 
on the tent?” questioned Omar. 

Ibrahim’s eyes twinkled. “In the name of Khoda, 
this is a bright boy. As a tentmaker he will surpass 
me,” he thought. “Do you fear he will not pay?” 
he asked Omar. 

“If he is the grandfather of Hassan, woe unto his 
creditors!” 

“You have a wise head,” said Ibrahim. “He has 
already paid me half the price in silver, though he 
did not wish to do so, and by the time the tent is half 
finished he must make another payment.” 

“But if he does not?” asked Omar. 

“Then I keep the tent, and let his father burn 

31 


THE YOUNG TENT MAKER 
in Gehenna.” And Ibrahim turned to the loom again 
and began sending the shuttle flying back and forth 
to the cheerful rhythm of the tentmaker’s song. 

When the afternoon sun was descending low in 
the west and the lengthening shadows of the cherry 
and walnut trees in the tentmaker’s yard had climbed 
the side of the wall and reached the housetop, the 
weavers rested from their labor. Ibrahim and his 
family had sherbet under the cherry tree, and Omar, 
after one glass of sherbet, had climbed the tree, for 
he had already seen with delight that some of the 
cherries were turning red. 

While his father and mother were talking over the 
tentmaking and the quantity of thread yet to be 
spun, Omar had reached the red cherries and was 
fondly handling them. He gently squeezed this one 
and that, and found that some were ripe and some 
were not. The ripe ones he plucked and eagerly ate, 
swallowing seeds and all. A few plump and beautiful 
cherries he placed in his bosom, and gave them to his 
parents as he came down from the tree. 

“What fine cherries!” said Amina as Omar gave 
her a handful. 

“They are too beautiful to eat,” mused Ibrahim, 
looking at the old cherry tree which had borne good 
fruit for many years. “Khoda is great and knows 
what is best.” 

“But they will not be so lovely to look upon in a 

32 


THE TENTSHOP 

few weeks,” spoke Omar. “They must be eaten 
while they are fresh and sweet.” 

“Yes, son, in time they will wither as everything 
that grows old.” Ibrahim knew that he and his wife 
were like the sun that was gradually declining toward 
the western horizon. 

“But Khoda kills not,” said Amina. “We eat the 
cherries, that is true, but in each cherry there is a 
seed, and this seed will bring forth many more 
cherries in time. Thus Khoda has His plans, which 
no one can change.” 

“Yes, yes,” meditated Ibrahim. “Khoda plans 
everything. He tells the birds when to fly and 
whither to go.” 

“Does Khoda know what is going to become of 
everybody and everything?” asked Omar thought¬ 
fully, taking another glass of sherbet. 

“Why, surely,” answered Ibrahim. “Do we not 
know what is going to become of this tent and for 
whom it is made? Do we not know all about it, how 
much wool and cotton it requires and how many days 
it takes to make it?” 

“It is made for Hassan’s grandfather, and I know 
how much wool and cotton we brought from the 
market, and you say it will be finished by the full 
moon.” 

“Then,” pronounced Ibrahim, “if we know all 
about what we make, Khoda knows also what becomes 
of what He has made.” 


33 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 

While Ibrahim was thus discussing the ultimate 
end of his work, a tap was heard from the iron ring 
on the wooden courtyard door. 

“See who knocks,” said Ibrahim, and Omar 
walked toward the door and opened it to the visitor. 
When Amina heard the rattle of the door, she 
quickly betook herself into the house with her 
daughters. 

As Omar opened the door he saw before him a 
proud man, dressed like a lord, and beside him was 
Hassan. They both walked in, and Omar closed the 
door and followed them. Hassan was striding im¬ 
portantly across the courtyard, scarcely glancing 
at Omar, as if he had never seen him before. Was he 
not the grandson of the governor of Naishapur, and 
who was this Omar? Only the son of a tentmaker. 
But Omar was not troubled by Hassan’s airs. Had 
he not stolen a cucumber from a poor fruit dealer, 
and had it not become known among the boys of 
the town that the nightingale’s nest in the chinnar 
tree by the cemetery was gone? No one knew any¬ 
thing more, to be sure, but their suspicions were cast 
toward Hassan. 

“If Khoda understands everything, then He knows 
the heart of Hassan,” thought Omar. 

Ibrahim politely advanced to meet the governor. 
“I am your sacrifice,” he said. “My household is 
yours. Omar, give the guests some sherbet.” 

But the governor was too proud to drink sherbet 

34 


THE TENTSHOP 

with a tentmaker, and he said, “Do not trouble your 
boy, tentmaker. I came to see the tent.” 

“The weaving is nearly finished, and soon I shall 
begin to sew the strips together,” answered Ibrahim. 
“It is now time, according to our agreement for an¬ 
other payment to be made. Will your excellency step 
here to the loom and look at the canvas?” 

The governor approached the loom, and Hassan 
stood beside him like an arrogant young lord, con¬ 
scious of his grandfather’s importance. With an 
ivory stick, Hadji Mukhtar began pointing at the 
portion of the tent material on the loom. 

“The threads are not close enough,” he informed 
Ibrahim. “I fear rain will soak through.” 

“This is the best work I have done, my lord,” 
said Ibrahim respectfully, yet confidently. “Now let 
me prove to you that water will not go through it. 
Omar, bring me the blue bowl full of water.” And 
Omar went to an earthen jar standing by the door of 
the house, filled the bowl with water and handed it 
over to his father. 

Ibrahim gathered a piece of the tent cloth into 
the shape of a bag, and poured the water within, 
and not a drop oozed through. “Now, my lord, you 
can see for yourself the quality of my work.” 

“ Khob , khob” grunted Hadji Mukhtar, “what 
about the great winds and hail? Will they not dam¬ 
age it?” 

“It depends upon what kind of winds and hail 

35 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
Khoda will send. It will withstand the kind of hail 
and wind that I have known since my childhood, but 
beyond that I can not tell.” 

“ Khob , it does not meet my eye. It is not worth 
the silver you ask for it.” 

“In the name of Khoda, do not belittle your great¬ 
ness before your own grandson,” said Ibrahim. 
“You are making a poor example to these boys by 
arguing over a subject not known to you. Making 
tents is my business, and I know how much material 
and labor it requires to make one. I am only a tent- 
maker, but I am a master of my trade, and if you 
doubt my honesty and ability I will not do business 
with you. Here is your money, and let me not be¬ 
hold your face any longer. Omar, throw the money 
at his feet.” 

“You son of an unrighteous father, know you not 
in whose presence you are? I can hold you prisoner 
for life and punish you with the bastinado till your 
feet drop from their joints.” 

“Just now you are in my yard, and I am stronger 
than you are,” said Ibrahim. “Be not foolish and 
start something for which you will be sorry. It will 
not become a man of your standing to be seen walking 
out of my yard with a broken head.” 

Omar knew that his father was in the right, and he 
met Hassan’s glare with confidence, for he felt that, 
though Ibrahim was only a poor tentmaker, yet 
Khoda was just and on his side. Hassan’s grand¬ 
father at last decided that he was dealing with a will 

36 


THE TENTSHOP 

stronger than his own and began softening his 
words. He bade his grandson gather up the money at 
his feet. Omar stooped to help him, and while the 
boys were thus busy, picking up the scattered silver 
coins, another rap was heard at the gate. Omar, with 
a glance at his father, ran to the door and opened it. 
He gasped in astonishment as he beheld the tall 
and stately teacher whom he had seen sometime ago. 
He had almost given up hope that he would see 
him again, particularly at his own gate. 

“In the name of Khoda, come in,” said Omar, and 
very proudly accompanied him to his father. 

“May Khoda give you His blessings and peace,” 
spoke the wise man, seeing that the tentmaker was 
too overcome by surprise to do more than bow humbly 
before the unexpected visitor. “I have heard that 
you are the best tentmaker in Naishapur, and I am 
always seeking persons who are not to be excelled 
in their particular work.” 

“You are the master and center of knowledge,” 
spoke Ibrahim. “Khoda has been very good and 
gracious to me by leading your steps to my gate. 
My son, Omar, has spoken of you every day for the 
past moon. Will you permit him to serve you a glass 
of sherbet?” And the tentmaker made the hospitable 
offer hesitantly, remembering how the governor had 
refused. 

“In the name of Khoda, that will be refreshing,” 
said the wise man. “An old man grows tired walking 
in the warm sun.” 


37 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 

Omar brought the glass of claret-colored syrup in 
which floated plump sweet raisins. He offered it 
with respectful eagerness, and the great man smiled 
kindly upon him. 

“Yes, yes, I remember this boy and his remarks 
as I passed a group of boys in my walk from the 
Juma Masjid. He will be one of the learned men of 
Iran, and will try to solve the problem of the 
universe,” he said with a twinkle in his bright brown 
eyes. “I am always looking for unusual boys, and 
I am hoping some day to have him for my student.” 

Hassan was now feeling very small, and Omar 
was on the verge of asking the wise man for his in¬ 
terpretation of why water tastes sweeter from one’s 
hand than when drunk from a clay cup, but Hadji 
Mukhtar, the governor, who was now all attention 
before the great man, seized the opportunity to be¬ 
gin an appreciative discourse on the fine work that 
Ibrahim was doing. 

“Now, Master Ibrahim,” he finished, “I am much 
pleased with your craftsmanship. Here is the pay¬ 
ment due.” And he handed over not only the coins 
Hassan had picked up from the ground but more 
coins to half their value. “May Khoda increase your 
wealth and happiness, and I shall expect the tent on 
the day agreed. Now, wisest of the magi” he said, 
and turned to the Imam, “do you tarry here long?” 

“Nay, the walk was longer than I thought, and 
the sun is low. I but came to greet the master tent- 
maker and his son, and if your soul is free let us 

38 


THE TENTSHOP 

depart.” He handed back the glass to Omar and said 
to Ibrahim, “I am grateful for your hospitality, 
Master Ibrahim, and I shall seek you again when you 
have leisure to talk about the future of this young 
tentmaker. Khoda be with you, and keep the head of 
your son, Omar.” And with a kindly tap on the 
boy’s shoulder he took leave of them, accepting the 
arm offered by the governor. 

Ibrahim and his son looked at each other in be¬ 
wilderment as the great teacher took his departure 
in the company of Hassan and his grandfather, and 
they were left alone in the courtyard. 

“Khoda is great, but there is no telling what that 
rascal, Mukhtar, will tell the great teacher about 
me. I do not trust officials, and I have a suspicion 
that the governor will not speak well of us.” 

“If he is the wise man you say he is, the Imam 
will not pay heed to a false man,” said Omar. “And 
if he does, then he is not a wise man.” 

“Ah, well, why fret about what may happen to¬ 
morrow? Khoda only knows about to-morrow. Let 
us weave a little longer before the daylight fails,” 
said Ibrahim, and they went ahead with their work. 



CHAPTER III 
WORLDLY HOPE 

The tent for Hadji Mukhtar was finished, and the 
tentmaker and his son were at work upon another. 
Omar was doing the work of a man, but Ibrahim’s 
keen eyes could see that the young tentmaker’s 
thoughts were far from the loom, and that he had 
lost the enthusiasm which, as a little boy, he had felt 
for his father’s trade. He sent the shuttle flying 
swiftly, but the cheerful tentmaker’s song was seldom 
heard from his lips. It was plain that he labored only 
to perform a duty; his heart was no longer in tent¬ 
making. Ibrahim himself often forgot to sing the 

40 










WORLDLY HOPE 

tentmaker’s song, for thinking anxiously about his 
son and what should be done for his future. 

_ i 

The two labored steadily at the loom in the shady 
courtyard, beginning the weaving before sunrise and 
ceasing not until sunset. There was now no pause 
at noon for food, for the last new moon had ushered 
in Ramazan, the month of fasting, when no food 
might be eaten from sunrise to sunset. Because the 
months of the Mohammedan year began and ended 
with the new moon, Ramazan came in turn at differ¬ 
ent seasons, and the fast was doubly hard in the long 
days of summer, when many hours intervened be¬ 
tween the rising and the setting of the sun, and the 
heat made any toil exhausting on so little sustenance. 
But Ibrahim, despite the fast, would not cease his 
tentmaking and pass the days in idleness as some did. 
He was too thrifty and too proud of his trade, and 
besides he knew that employment for the hands kept 
the mind from thoughts of hunger. This year, for 
the first time, Omar kept the fast, for he would have 
been ashamed to see his father work alone. He strove 
to overcome his hunger and weariness and sat faith¬ 
fully at the loom, but his restless and questioning 
thoughts made him moody and silent. 

Each evening at sunset, when the day’s fast ended, 
the azan giver with the most musical voice in the 
city of Naishapur ascended the minaret of the great 
Juma Masj id and, with sonorous tones, called the 
people to repentance and prayer. The fast was 

41 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
strictly observed, not only by the many devout, but 
by the few indifferent ones who feared the public 
censure though they respected not the significance 
of the fast. But all alike waited with longing for the 
end of the weary month. At last one evening, from 
the housetop, young Omar caught sight of the little 
new moon, hung gracefully in the western sky, with 
the glittering jewel of the evening star at the tip 
of one slender horn. 

“Praise to Khoda!” cried Omar. “Look, the new 
moon!” 

The same glad cry echoed from housetop to house¬ 
top all over Naishapur, as other watchers hailed 
with delight the end of the hard fast. To-morrow 
there would be no work; the shops would be closed, 
and all the people would celebrate the end of Rama¬ 
zan with great festivities. Some, indeed, unable to 
wait for the morrow, descended into their store¬ 
houses the moment the new moon was spied, and 
prepared for the coming holiday with a night of 
feasting. 

As it happened the morrow was a Friday, and at 
sunrise the same voices that had urged the people 
to repentance for the last moon were now heard 
from the minarets of the mosques calling them to be¬ 
gin the happy feast day by praising Khoda. 

When Ibrahim heard the voice of the azan giver, 
he thoughtfully looked at his wife. 

“Khoda be praised, Khoda be praised!” he said. 

42 


WORLDLY HOPE 

“This is Juma. Let us go to the mosque and give 
thanks to Khoda for protecting our heads and filling 
our stomachs with food.” 

Amina looked about for her son. “Omar is now 
of an age to worship in the mosque,” she said. “The 
words of the preacher might soothe his restless 
spirit.” 

“Ah,” sighed Ibrahim, “it will be hard to keep 
him at the tentshop. I do not know whether these 
new friends he has made are having a good influence 
on him. We are not rich, you know, and can not 
give our son what Hassan and Nizam have.” 

“I know,” responded Amina, and then she added 
thoughtfully and proudly, “but when Omar becomes 
a man he will surpass them both. He may even be¬ 
come azizi sultan; who knows?” 

“He will never become the king’s favorite by 
making tents. He must do something great and un¬ 
usual, otherwise no one will ever hear of him. But 
Khoda knows there is something unusual about him 
already. Would the great teacher have visited our 
tentshop if it were not for Omar? Khob , Omar is 
not here, and the preacher will not wait. If you are 
ready, let us go.” 

Ibrahim was dressed in his best coat, woven of 
threads like those that went into the body of his 
tents. He put on his high turban and his slippers 
made of buffalo hide, and Amina covered up her in¬ 
door dress with a chadar. 


43 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 

“I am ready,” she said, and her husband, ac¬ 
cording to the custom of Iran, led the way from 
his courtyard to the street. He kept ahead of his 
wife a few steps, never looking backward, but he 
knew she was following him. Now they walked 
through the crooked street that led to the great 
mosque. On the way they met other worshipers 
solemnly walking toward the sanctuary, the men 
walking first and their women following them faith¬ 
fully in every step. 

The high gates of the Juma Masj id were thrown 
open, and the great pool of water, paved with marble 
and edged with the finest glazed tiles that Naishapur 
could produce, was surrounded with worshipers who 
were dipping their palms in the crystal blue water 
and running it over their beards in the name of 
Khoda. Their womenfolk had entered the mosque 
through another gate, without any ablution cere¬ 
mony, and had seated themselves in a section of the 
great mosque, separated from the men by a curtain. 
Men and women were now facing the pulpit, ready 
to hear the preaching of Imam Mowaffak, the Wise. 
Every one knew that Imam Mowaffak would be the 
preacher that day, for only on such special occasions 
did the great man appear. 

A little commotion from the men’s section was 
heard. The worshipers turned to the east and heard 
the saintly steps in rhythmic and solemn fashion 
walking over the precious Ispahan carpet that 

44 


WORLDLY HOPE 

covered the steps of the pulpit. There was a slight 
cough and moving of lips. 

“Khoda is great, Khoda is great, let every one 
hearken to the words of Khoda!” 

Then a book, priceless in its decoration, for it 
was done by the finest caligrapher of Naishapur and 
the best miniature painter of Iran, was placed be¬ 
tween the arms of the beautifully carved and lac¬ 
quered Koran stand, over which the great Imam 
bowed his head to read. 

Not a shuffle was heard from the faithful wor¬ 
shipers. The great preacher closed the holy book 
and spoke earnestly to his hearers. 

“The month of Ramazan has passed and our 
repentance has brought a new day of forgiveness 
and rejoicing. It is good to be glad and take delight 
in the good things of the world which Khoda has 
made. But give yourselves not wholly to vain and 
idle pleasures with no thought of Khoda and the 
praise that is due Him. How foolish and selfish 
we are to forget what is of everlasting value in the 
petty cares and pleasures of the moment. This 
life is short, and no one knows when the angel of 
the dark will appear at his door and demand his 
soul. Do good where you can to those that are 
with you, for once you depart hence you will not be 
able to minister unto them. Think not only of 
worldly goods, for they perish like snow upon the 
desert, but believe in the Prophet’s Paradise, for 

45 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
there will be our lasting happiness and there shall 
we find rest for our souls.” 

The great preacher descended from the pulpit in 
the same dignified manner and disappeared as he 
had come forth. Now one by one the worshipers left 
their places and departed into the street. A woman 
gave the signal that the men had departed, and 
each woman covered herself with her chadar and 
walked with stately steps toward her home. 

Ibrahim reached his house, took off his slippers 
and went about his business of making tents. Soon 
Amina arrived. She now removed her chadar, and 
Ibrahim looked at her as he would at a glittering 
diamond. Though they had been married for fifteen 
harvest seasons, Ibrahim thought she had never 
looked so beautiful as now. He gave thanks to Khoda 
for his loving helpmeet, and for the peace and com¬ 
fort of his household, and went to his weaving with 
a grateful heart and a contented spirit. It was a 
holiday and all Naishapur was celebrating, but Ibra¬ 
him thought he might weave till noonday. A morn¬ 
ing’s accomplishment would sweeten the afternoon’s 
pleasure. 

All morning Amina busied herself at the oven 
among her cooking pots, preparing the dishes that 
Ibrahim and Omar liked best. As Ibrahim stopped 
his weaving and entered the house for the noonday 
meal, quick steps were heard in the courtyard. 

46 


WORLDLY HOPE 

“It is Omar,” said Amina. 

“Khoda bless his head,” Ibrahim responded as 
Omar entered the house. “Did you have a great 
day, my son? Where have you been and what have 
you been doing? You are old enough now to be go¬ 
ing to the mosque on Fridays. You would have seen 
the great teacher this morning and heard him speak 
words of wisdom.” 

Omar stopped. He had never thought he was 
missing an opportunity to hear the Imam, and it 
made his morning seem more fruitless than ever. 
He had come home somewhat crestfallen, and now 
he remained silent, not knowing whether he should 
speak to his parents of what he was thinking. 

“Precious life,” said Amina to the young tent- 
maker, “why are you not yourself? Do you have 
black thoughts ? Have things not gone well with you 
this day?” 

“Mother, how do you read my thoughts?” cried 
Omar. “I never had such feelings before. But look 
at my clothes. See my old hat and shabby coat. 
I have been watching the other boys to-day, and 
there was no one so badly dressed as I am.” 

Ibrahim heard the words of his son and they 
pierced his heart as a needle. He looked on the floor 
and spat upon it twice. 

“O Khoda, let not my son be like other boys!” he 
said to himself. Then he called Omar to him and 
placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Now, my 

47 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
son,” he asked, pretending not to have heard Omar’s 
complaint to his mother, “tell what you have seen 
this day.” 

“I have seen the games in the Maidan Khana. 
Hassan was there on a fine Arabian horse, playing 
polo with other boys. Nizam was good to me. He 
let me ride his horse to follow the ball. I took the 
ball from Hassan twice, but the boys called me beggar 
because of my old clothes.” 

“What good do you have from playing polo?” 
inquired Ibrahim. “ Khob , after all, why should 
such a foolish game have been invented, to tire the 
horses and run them against each other, with the men 
clubbing their feet and heads with their sticks, and 
all for what? To gain possession of a ball that is of 
no use. Nay, nay, perhaps the polo players were 
not having such a good time as they thought.” 

Omar looked at his father with searching eyes. 
Such a question had not entered his head. His 
father, knowing that he planted a seed of wisdom 
in his son’s mind, approached him in another way. 

“Polo, my son, can give exercise to the rich who 
toil not, but we who labor for our bread have no 
need of it, and when we seek amusement we can turn 
to games that develop the mind. Polo can not do 
that. Let us have a game of chess.” 

After the meal was over, father and son sat down 
to a game of chess in the shady courtyard. The 
chess-board and pieces were one of Ibrahim’s few 

48 


WORLDLY HOPE 

treasures, for they were the work of his friend, 
Ameen, the skillful wood carver. He arranged his 
battle line with pride, while Omar set his pieces upon 
the opposite side. The struggle became absorbing 
as the game progressed, and Omar had forgotten 
the polo game after the third move. At last Ibrahim 
saw that within a few more moves he would trap 
Omar’s king. Ibrahim was a shrewd father. He 
would not beat his son while any memory of 
the morning’s disappointment might trouble his 
mind. 

“Son,” said the tentmaker, “my head is dizzy. 
Let us finish this game to-morrow. Put the board 
away and we will walk to the caravanserai to see 
how our neighbors are making merry.” 

Omar joined his father with a cheerful face, and 
the two passed through the gate into the street to 
mingle with the holiday throng. But Omar’s worldly 
desires had given his father much concern. After all, 
he was like other boys. Every boy must dream 
dreams, but what distinguished one boy from an¬ 
other was the kind of dreams he was dreaming. 
Ibrahim had dreamed in his boyhood of equalling his 
father at the trade of tentmaking. He had ac¬ 
complished his ambition and was content with his 
small success, but such was not for Omar. Who 
knew what dreams were in the boy’s head, what future 
conquests his imagination had already won? 

The will to conquer was good, but what and how 

49 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
to conquer was something else, that Ibrahim knew. 
The new friends, Nizam and Hassan, had showed 
Omar glimpses of a glittering world. The horizon 
was wide and the heights that might be climbed 
were overwhelming. But Ibrahim’s eyes of experi¬ 
ence could see the faults to which the dazzled eyes 
of youth would be blind. The tentmaker knew that 
the possessors of great wealth were often unhappy. 
Men of vast riches were robbed and killed. They 
lived in prison in their own homes, fearing every 
man. And officials and men of authority were sub¬ 
ject to dismissal and assassination. Ibrahim had 
no desire to see his son enter such a life. Better a 
tentmaker, eating his honestly earned bread, than 
a governor dwelling in a palace surrounded by spies. 

It was another day. The great festivities had 
made some people happy and some people sad. This 
day the city of Naishapur woke to great excitement. 
Quickly the news spread to every quarter that the 
dalal bashie (head of the merchants) had been 
stabbed in his own house, after a day and night of 
celebration. Officers and soldiers blocked the street, 
pushing people back and forth. The moving caravans 
were halted on the spot, and heavy guards were 
placed at all the city gates. Merchants did not open 
their shops, and every one stayed within his own 
courtyard, for on such occasions the innocent might 
suffer with the guilty ones. Ibrahim kept his family 

50 


WORLDLY HOPE 

safely in his own house. Omar was curious to know 
why the great man was assassinated. 

“Khoda knows everything,” said Amina. “Maybe 
he had oppressed the poor and cheated orphans of 
their inheritance.” 

“Oh, he would rob the mosque if he could! All 
dishonest men come to some bad end,” responded 
Ibrahim. “Mark what I tell you, the assassin will 
not live to benefit from his deed. Khoda is great and 
His ways are just.” 

“How could it benefit a man to kill another?” 
questioned Omar. 

“My son,” answered his father, “you are too young 
to understand, and too young to have your thoughts 
shadowed with evil and sorrow. As you grow you 
will have trouble enough. Khob, it is necessary to 
have grief in order to understand this world.” 

“Do grief and knowledge go together?” 

“They do, my son. Not only that, but in order to 
know happiness one must also have sorrow with it.” 

“And is that the will of Khoda?” asked Omar. 

“Only Khoda knows, my son, and now let us talk 
no more of it.” 

Omar looked at the birds flying about him. A 
robin was skipping gracefully on the wall of the 
courtyard, and it flew up into the air as a soldier 
passed by with a spear on his shoulder. Soon a mili¬ 
tary cavalcade was swiftly moving toward the Juma 
Masjid. Ibrahim climbed to the housetop, crawl- 

51 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
ing on his hands and knees, for fear of being hit 
by a stray arrow. He could see the courtyard of the 
mosque filled with soldiers. 

“Khoda knows,” he thought, “they have found 
the criminal. He is in the mosque. He has taken 
refuge in the sanctuary.” 

Ibrahim came down from the housetop, and Omar 
met him as he was descending from the last step of 
the wooden ladder. 

“They have found him,” said Ibrahim. 

“Where, where?” cried Omar. 

“Why, in the mosque,” replied Ibrahim. 

“Are they going to take him out?” 

“No, no one can do that if he has found refuge in 
the inner chamber. Not even the chief mustahed can 
touch him there.” 

“Can the king go in and bring him out?” asked 
Omar. 

“No, not even the king can do that. The sanctuary 
of Khoda is stronger than the king and all the 
army.” 

“ Khob , what is going to become of the guilty 
man?” 

“He is likely to die from fear and starvation,” 
said Ibrahim. 

It was as Ibrahim had guessed. The assassin was 
in a safe place and could not be touched. But 
guards were placed around the wall of the mosque 
to prevent his escape, and the law bided its time. 

52 


WORLDLY HOPE 

Omar could not sleep for a long while that night. 
His active imagination centered round the intolerable 
position of the man in the sanctuary, safe for the 
moment from the clutch of justice, but faced with 
starvation if he remained, or almost certain capture 
if he left his refuge. What had the man hoped to 
gain by his crime? Riches? Revenge? Of how little 
value must they seem now weighed against the terrible 
price he must pay! 

Three days passed, and the Juma Masj id was the 
center of attention for all Naishapur, and the idlers 
in the market place were laying wagers as to how 
much longer the criminal would suffer hunger and 
thirst before he would give himself up or try to 
escape. On the third night, as one of the soldiers 
was pacing back and forth, he heard something drop 
over the wall. He hastened to the spot and im¬ 
mediately held his prisoner between his strong hands. 
The assassin, unable to bear the agony of thirst any 
longer, had crawled from his hiding place under 
cover of night and started to climb the wall. Despite 
his weariness, he finally succeeded in reaching the 
top of the great wall. Here his strength completely 
left him and he fell on the other side like a heavy 
load. 

The soldier had no difficulty holding his captive. 
He could easily have run his sword through his body, 
but it was the reward he was seeking. The governor 

53 


THE YOUNG TENT MAKER 
had decreed that whosoever captured the culprit 
alive should receive a hundred pieces of silver. 

Early in the morning the prisoner was seen hang¬ 
ing by his heels from the gate that was near the tent- 
shop of Ibrahim, and a crowd of spectators had 
gathered to see the execution of justice. 

“Have you beheld the sight? Have you beheld the 
sight?” cried one man to another from his housetop. 

“What is it? What is it?” 

“There is a man hanging from the city gate. 
Verily he must be the criminal. Let us descend and 
see for ourselves.” 

“He is not dead yet. I saw his hands twitching,” 
whispered Omar to his father, with a shiver of 
horror, as the two made their way back through the 
crowd to their own courtyard. 

Ibrahim soberly shook his head. “His worldly 
hopes and troubles will soon be over,” he said, and 
turned again to his tentmaking. 



CHAPTER IV 
THE GOLDEN GRAIN 

One warm day Nizam appeared at the tentshop, 
seeking Omar. 

“Let us go to the river and visit Hassan,” he said. 

Omar hesitated and Nizam approached Ibrahim. 

“Master Tentmaker, may Khoda bless your head, 
will you let Omar go for my sake?” 

Ibrahim was glad to give his son a holiday, for 
Omar had worked faithfully, and the tentmaker liked, 
too, the courteous speech and ways of the young 
student from the Madrassa. 

“Go with your friend, Omar,” said his father, 

55 





THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
“and Khoda give you both a pleasant afternoon.” 

But Omar still hesitated, and at last said, “Hassan 
and I are no more friends. He came with his grand¬ 
father to humiliate us in our own courtyard.” 

“Why do you not forgive him?” urged Nizam. 
“You know we all have faults. If we do not forgive 
other people, how can we expect to be forgiven by 
them?” 

“My friend,” responded Omar, “no good will Has¬ 
san ever do for you or for me. It is best not to see 
him again.” 

“But since Imam Mowaffak came to your tent- 
shop, Hassan has changed his heart. I heard him 
say that even if your father is a tentmaker, the 
great teacher may take you for his student. He 
also told me that he would like to be a friend to 
you. He will ask his grandfather to give you a horse 
to play polo.” 

“I want no presents from him or his grandfather.” 

Nizam waited a while and observed the expression 
of Omar’s face. It was sad and thoughtful. 

“We all have faults,” Nizam repeated. “We all 
make mistakes. It behooves us therefore to forgive 
each other.” 

Then Omar smiled and said, “I have forgiven and 
forgotten for your sake. If you wish to go to Has- 
san’s tent, we shall go.” 

The two boys left the tentmaker’s yard and walked 
toward the Wadi River, where the tent of Hassan’s 

56 


THE GOLDEN GRAIN 

grandfather was pitched. Their way led past the 
fields of wheat, waving in the breeze and beginning 
to turn golden in the summer sun. Khoda had sent 
the rain in due season. The tears of heaven and the 
warm sunshine had brought out the golden grains 
from the bosom of the earth. The tall bearded wheat 
was now proudly looking up to heaven and playfully 
bending back and forth, as a w*estern wind swept up 
softly from the Wadi River. 

Soon the boys approached the river. Along its 
brink were the tents of the rich families. Every 
summer they pitched their tents by the banks of the 
Wadi, whose fresh waters made the heat more en¬ 
durable. Among the tents Omar saw several that 
were the products of his father’s tentshop, and he 
felt at home as he walked among them. Some were 
several seasons old, but they still held their shape, 
and would last many summers to come. The new 
tent of Hadji Mukhtar was conspicuous. It was 
ornamented with silken tassels and the borders were 
worked with many colors. 

The boys saw Hassan sitting by the river’s brink, 
throwing pebbles into the smoothly running water. 
Omar and Nizam approached closer, and, when they 
were within a few paces, Nizam called a greeting. 
Hassan looked up and smiled in welcome. Omar stood 
silently gazing into the limpid water as Hassan kept 
throwing pebbles into the river. Pebble after pebble 

57 


THE YOUNG TENT MAKER 
he dropped, making a disturbance in the peaceful 
waters for a moment. Each pebble made a small 
circle, which gradually widened, then finally dis¬ 
appeared, leaving no sign that the water had ever 
been disturbed. 

“This world cares as much for us as the Wadi 

* 

River heeds these pebbles,” said Omar. 

Nizam and Hassan looked at him eagerly. Why 
was this boy so different from all other boys they 
had known? Hassan had already begun to forget 
that Omar was the son of a tentmaker. He anxiously 
extended his hand, asking forgiveness for himself 
and his grandfather, for any one in whom Imam 
Mowaffak was interested it was good policy to be¬ 
friend. 

“My grandfather’s soul will be pleased to see you,” 
said Hassan, and he led the boys into the outer com¬ 
partment of the tent. The side toward the east had 
been raised to let in the breeze, and Hadji Mukhtar, 
the mighty man of Naishapur, was reclining on soft 
cushions. He looked at the boys from the corner of 
his sleepy eye. The hashish had the best of him 
for the time being, and he was in an indulgent 
mood. He flung a few silver pieces at the feet of the 
boys. 

“Pick them up, Hassan,” he said languidly, “and 
go treat your friends.” Saying that, he abandoned 
himself to dreamy languor, gazing at the Wadi 
River, that seemed, for such was the effect of the drug 

58 


THE GOLDEN GRAIN 

upon the vision, to have widened until it covered the 
whole universe. 

The boys left the tent, Hassan jingling the silver 
coins in his palm. He spent the money recklessly. 
Food vendors from the town had followed the rich 
Naishapurians to the river bank, to supply the wants 
of the summer colony, and there was a little bazaar 
set up behind the tents. Here meats were being 
broiled into shishkabob, and the boys bought of that. 
Then they proceeded on their way, purchasing fruits, 
fine cucumbers and sweets, and finally disappeared 
into a large pavilion and had sherbet. They came 
out surfeited with food and drink and lounged in¬ 
dolently upon the river bank. The sun was descend¬ 
ing toward the west, and the shadows were becoming 
longer and longer, gradually extending toward the 
east. Now the tent dwellers came out from their 
afternoon rest to have their sherbet in the shade of 
the great trees. 

In a secluded spot, Omar, Nizam and Hassan un¬ 
dressed and splashed the waters of the Wadi into 
each other’s faces. When the sun was an hour from 
the horizon, Omar dressed to depart homeward. 
Hassan invited his friends to spend the evening. 
Nizam acepted, but Omar could not be persuaded, 
knowing that his father would expect him at azan 
call. Saying “Khoda fest (God bless you),” to his 
friends, he returned to the town, refreshed and 
happy. 


59 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 

Omar walked back past the fields of waving wheat, 
directing his course toward a grove of young walnut 
trees. These marked the land of his grandfather, 
Amina’s father, and many a summer day Omar had 
spent with the old man. As he approached, he caught 
sight of the stooped figure above the golden heads 
of grain. Old Zalam was often found in his fields, 
though he was too feeble now to labor and must leave 
the tilling of the earth to his sons and grandsons. 
This afternoon he was walking in his wheatfields, 
with his hands behind his back, viewing the verdure 
of his land. Occasionally he picked a stone from his 
ground and threw it into a little stream that watered 
his wheat. Then he placed a stone here and there in 
one of his mud walls, and with his own hands stuffed 
grass and twigs firmly into the fringe of an aqueduct 
where the water was oozing out to be wasted. He 
walked all around the little stream that was giving 
life and health to his land and to himself. Having 
carefully inspected his fields and the watercourse, he 
was just descending to the road from a sandy hill 
where poppies blossomed in beauty and great variety. 

Omar overtook the slowly moving figure, and 
Zalam turned with a light of welcome in his face for 
his daughter’s child. 

“Where have you been, young tentmaker?” he 
asked. 

“To the tents along the river. My friend Nizam, 
the student, and I visited Hassan in his grandfather’s 

60 


THE GOLDEN GRAIN 

tent. Hadji Mukhtar gave us money to buy shish - 
kabob and fruits and sherbet.” 

Zalam shook his head doubtfully. His grandson’s 
friendship with the grandson of the lord of Naisha- 
pur disturbed his simple soul. 

“What times are these,” he said, “when the gover¬ 
nor’s family entertains a tentmaker’s son? Hadji 
Mukhtar is a proud man and a hard man, who has 
ever made the common folk keep their place. I under¬ 
stand it not, but this I know, beware of going un¬ 
asked to the doors of the rich and mighty, lest the 
door be shut in your face.” 

“It is Hassan who seeks my friendship,” responded 
Omar. “He sent Nizam to me, and for Nizam’s 
sake I went to visit Hassan. You know not Nizam. 
He also is the son of a rich man, but his heart is just. 
It is because the Imam of Naishapur noticed me that 
Hassan wishes to be my friend, but Nizam was my 
friend from the first time we met.” 

“None of our family nor of the family of your 
grandfather, Hamza Khayyam, associated with 
scholars and rich men’s sons,” spoke the old man, 
thoughtfully fingering his prayer beads. “Yet none 
before you had a head for study or a tongue for 
argument like yours. Klnob , khob, let us leave these 
things and look at the wonders of Khoda. What a 
day this is!” And the old man raised his eyes to 
the declining sun. 

The sky was clear and deep azure, resembling 

61 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
the bluest bowl in Naishapur. The horizon was far 
and his weakening sight could see farther away than 
at any time since a cataract had obstructed the 
vision of one of his eyes. Life was good. The 
glorious sun had warmed his blood and the fire of 
spring was still burning in his veins. He plucked a 
handful of bright poppies and bound them with one 
of the long stems. 

“Take them to the little Bulbul. They will please 
her.” And he handed them to Omar. 

Omar looked at the fragile petals, as thin and deli¬ 
cately marked as a butterfly’s wing. Their life was 
short as a butterfly’s, also. Only a day or two they 
blossomed among the waving wheat, then the lovely 
petals, crumpled by the wind, dropped to the ground 
and withered into dust. To pluck the bright flowers 
from the slender stems would scarcely shorten their 
brief loveliness. 

Together the stooped old man and the straight- 
limbed boy descended into the vineyard. The vines 
in the vineyards about Naishapur were particularly 
healthy that season. Every vine was packed with 
green clusters that the summer sun would turn into 
purple and yellow and crimson, full of juice and 
strength, and old Zalam gave thanks to Khoda for his 
good fortune. 

He lifted one fine cluster in his hand and it was 
heavy. “What fine kishmish this will make when 
it has been dried in the sun.” 


63 


THE GOLDEN GRAIN 

He inspected all the vines. Whenever he saw a 
bug on the leaves, he crushed it under his foot and 
cursed its grave. Some fine grape leaves he plucked 
from the vines and placed them carefully in his big 
handkerchief. 

“Take these to your mother,” he said to Omar, 
“to make dalma .” He often sent his daughter fresh 
grape leaves for dalma: rice and ground meat mixed 
together, rolled in grape leaves and steamed over the 
charcoal fire. 

As the two left the vineyard, they passed by a 
clump of wild rosebushes, and found them withering. 
The roses that had bloomed were no more there. 
That made old Zalam feel sad. 

“The rose blooms once and dies forever,” he 
sighed, and Omar’s heart responded to the old man’s 
words. There had always been a sympathetic feeling 
between the thoughtful boy and the grandfather 
who had taught him nature lore in the fields 
and vineyards. Only when Omar questioned the 
workings of nature, or the purpose of Khoda be¬ 
hind them, did they fail to find accord, for old 
Zalam took in simple faith the sowing and the 
harvest. 

He picked two fresh roses that had bloomed late 
among the withering leaves, and placed one in his 
girdle and gave the other to Omar. 

“This is for your elder sister. She is budding like 
a rose.” said Zalam, and, having laden Omar with 

63 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
the mementoes of his fields, he took a sheep path 
that led through a field of clover and then into the 
orchard of walnuts and then to his own home. A soft 
breeze blew down several yellowing walnut leaves 
that had already seen their usefulness and had be¬ 
come old and ready to be turned into earth. Old 
Zalam crushed a few leaves as he walked on the grass 
that covered the walnut orchard. But soon he for¬ 
got the dying walnut leaves and the fading rose 
bushes, and thought of his fine wheatfields and vine¬ 
yards. 

“How good Khoda has been!” he said, turning 
for a last glimpse of the ripening grain beyond the 
vineyard. “There will be much wheat. The store¬ 
houses of Naishapur will be full and the winter will 
be pleasant. If Khoda wills, this will be the richest 
year of my life. The wheat will be ripe within two 
more summer days, and then we shall gather the 
golden grain.” 

At the edge of the walnut orchard they parted, 
for it was nearly time for azan to be heard from the 
tower of the mosque, calling the good people of Nai¬ 
shapur to prayer and to the evening meal. 

Zalam placed his hand on his grandson’s head a 
moment, saying, “God bless thy precious life.” 

Each went his own way in the glow of the setting 
sun. Omar passed a few farmers, returning late 
from their fields, and heard them talking of the com¬ 
ing harvest. 


64 


THE GOLDEN GRAIN 

“Only two more days, if it pleases Khoda, and 
we shall cut our wheat.” 

“My grandfather and all the farmers are happy 
to-day,” thought Omar, hurrying toward the tent- 
shop. “But who knows what Khoda will do to-mor¬ 
row? Yet why think of to-morrow if to-day is 
good?” And Omar entered his father’s gate just as 
the azan call came from the minaret of the Juma 
Masjid. A steaming fragrance greeted the young 
tentmaker from the outdoor oven, and he forgot his 
serious thoughts as he proceeded to partake of the 
shorba, that had just been cooked in an earthenware 
pot made by the potter Sadig of Naishapur. 

That evening, clouds were gathering in the west. 
The waters of the Wadi River were restless and im¬ 
patient. The wind became stronger and bent the 
tops of the chinnar trees lower and lower. Fingers 
of silver crashed through the sky, followed by 
mighty roars of thunder. The wind blew harder 
and harder. Old trees that had stood many trials 
crashed to the ground, bringing down with them 
young trees that were to bear fruit for the first 
time. There was another crash, and another and an¬ 
other, splitting trees and shaking the very walls of 
Naishapur. The people, wakened by the violence of 
the storm, waited in suspense, for they knew not 
what might happen. 

Omar looked out into the courtyard. The old 

65 


THE YOUNG TENT MAKER 
cherry tree had fallen. A flash of lightning showed 
the yard strewn with leaves and branches. A white 
ball made its way from the dark sky, almost strik¬ 
ing Omar’s bare head. Then another came and an¬ 
other. Now they descended in torrents, flying in all 
directions. Omar closed the door. The heavenly 
missiles were too deadly. The hail continued for a 
short while, and stopped. Omar looked out again 
into the yard. Everything was now still, but the 
ground was white as though a heavy winter snow 
had fallen. 

“Very bad, very bad,” said Ibrahim, as he also 
viewed the courtyard covered with balls of ice. “This 
will ruin the wheat harvest and the vineyards.” 
Then he put out the oil lamp, and he and his family 
went to bed again, but could not sleep for a long 
time, even though a cool breath followed the hail¬ 
storm. 

Early in the morning, Omar walked out of his 
courtyard toward the fields. In the orchards the 
ground was covered with the branches and leaves 
and young green fruit of the pear and peach trees. 
“There must have been a terrible wind,” said Omar 
to himself as he splashed through cold water in a 
little ditch that had been full of balls of ice. The 
farmers were viewing the damage with heavy hearts. 
They had dressed hurriedly, while the sun was yet 
behind the hills, and, without taking any food, had 

66 


THE GOLDEN GRAIN 

hastened to their wheatfields and vineyards. Now 
they were sadly returning to their homes, cursing 
hail-storms and winds and other heavenly calamities. 

Omar found his grandfather gloomily walking 
through his vineyard. The fine green leaves which 
he had seen the day before were beaten to the ground 
and covered with mud. The young grape clusters 
were no longer attached to the vines, but were scat¬ 
tered here and there. The vines were now lean and 
ugly, unprotected by their thick coats of fine green 
leaves. They would probably dry up in the heat of 
the summer sun. 

“What a heavenly wrath, what a heavenly wrath!” 
cried old Zalam, as he left the desolate vineyard and 
viewed his wheatfields. “We have labored all spring 
and summer, and now what are we to reap?” 

Omar looked at the wheat. Only a few hours ago 
it had stood tall and straight, lifting its heavy 
heads of golden grain proudly to the sun. Now it 
was crushed into the earth and the golden heads 
were buried in the mud. Zalam picked up a few 
heads and brushed the mud from the golden grains. 

“It is no use viewing the fields any longer,” he 
said, his heart splitting with sorrow. He took a 
deep sigh. “ Khob , khob” he said then, “what Khoda 
wills, He wills.” 

“Why should He will this destruction?” ques¬ 
tioned Omar. “He made the wheat to grow, why 
should He destroy it before it has filled its use?” 

67 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 

“Nay, it is not for us to question the ways of 
Khoda,” answered the old man. “We must take 
what Khoda sends, the good and the bad.” Then he 
thought of the effect this storm would have. “There 
will be a shortage of wheat. Surely there will be 
famine in Naishapur this winter.” 

The old man turned his feeble steps toward home, 
with great foreboding, but Omar walked onward. 
He had never seen famine, and he soon forgot his 
grandfather’s words. He was a tentmaker, so what 
concerned him was how his father’s tents had stood 
such a heavenly ordeal. 

The camping ground of the rich Naishapurians 
was in great disorder. Some of the tents had fallen 
to the ground from the impact of the great wind, 
and the balls of ice had penetrated others, leaving 
holes as large as Omar’s fist. He walked toward 
Hassan’s tent. It was still holding its position on 
the ground, and was as sound as when first made. 

“What a night, what a night!” said Hassan as 
he greeted his friend Omar. “We thought stones 
were coming upon our heads when the hail fell. 
Khoda be my witness, it was a terrible night!” 

Omar saw other tents that were made in his 
father’s tentshop, and all were undamaged. This 
would be good news to Ibrahim, and he returned 
to his father’s tentshop to tell him how their tents 
had withstood the great hail-storm. 

Ibrahim stroked his long beard, which was now 

68 


THE GOLDEN GRAIN 

turning gray. “Our business will be doubled,” he 
said solemnly, and went to his loom, bidding Omar 
to sit beside him and do some weaving. 

For a few days after the devastating storm, the 
sun shone brightly over the fields and orchards of 
Naishapur. The great heat steamed and baked the 
wheat into the ground. Soon the stalks of golden 
grain became brittle and ready for harvest. The 
farmers took their sickles and, each in his own field, 
started working, gathering the priceless golden¬ 
headed wheat from the ground and saving all that 
was fit to use, as well as cutting the straw to be fed 
to their animals in the winter. It would be a hard 
winter, every one knew that. Wheat would be scarce, 
and those that had never before gleaned in the 
fields went out with their baskets, scattering in many 
directions to gather what they could find. 

“Son,” said Ibrahim to Omar one morning, “we 
will need wheat. It will be best for us to do what 
our neighbors are doing. Let us go into the fields 
and pick the ground. We can make tents all winter. 
Just now making tents is not as important as gather¬ 
ing wheat, for people can live without tents, but no 
one can live without wheat.” And they departed into 
the fields with their baskets. 

The gleaners picked the fields clean. Omar and his 
father brought home baskets upon baskets of wheat, 
trampled and mud-covered heads that had been left 
by the harvesters. Carefully they tried to clean the 

69 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
mud from the grains, but many heads they found 
crushed and empty. 

“Has Khoda done this to all the fields of Iran?” 
asked Omar as they were flaying the wheat in their 
courtyard. 

“It may be that other fields have not been dis¬ 
turbed, and the wheat may be as plentiful elsewhere 
as drops of rain in the springtime. Caravans will 
arrive soon, and then we shall hear the news.” 

The pile of straw was now as tall as Omar him¬ 
self, but the good heads of wheat measured only a 
few basketfuls. Ibrahim placed the heads in a coarse 
sieve, shaking it back and forth until the golden 
grains fell on the ground and were eagerly picked 
up and placed in a big jar to be used for the winter. 
Then Omar and his father went ahead with their 
business of tentmaking. 



CHAPTER V 

THE HOUSE OF THE IMAM 

The leaves of the chinnar trees were falling one 
by one, scattered by a swift wind that blew from the 
north. Soon the ground was thickly covered with 
beautifully colored leaves that once had been green 
upon the treetops. The courtyard of the Juma 
Masj id was carpeted with the gold of poplar leaves. 
The Imam, coming out of the great mosque, looked 
at the bare branches that stood straight and slender 
against the blue autumn sky. 

“The winter will soon be here, with the cold winds 
and snow,” he said, and shivered at the thought. 

71 



THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 

He went out from the gate and bent his steps in 
the direction of Master Ibrahim’s tentshop. Ibra¬ 
him was at work at his loom in the courtyard when 
a knock came at the gate. He opened the heavy 
wooden door and beheld the stately form of the 
Imam. 

“You come on my eye,” he said, and bowed before 
the great man. 

“Peace be with thee,” answered the Imam. 
“Where is your boy, Omar?” 

“Like other boys, he is in the fields gathering 
nightingales’ nests.” 

The Imam gave a wise smile. Many years ago 
he had enjoyed such sport. 

“I want Omar for my student. I have chosen two 
other boys to study in my house. I want Omar to 
study with them. You will have no expense, for he 
will be a member of my household and in my care.” 

When Ibrahim heard from the lips of the Imam 
that his own son would be one of the chosen few, his 
heart swelled up within him. 

“My boy is yours!” he cried. “Khoda has given 
me a real son upon whom I shall lean in my old age.” 
And after the Imam had gone, he sat idle at his 
loom, forgetting to throw the shuttle as he meditated 
upon his great good fortune. 

Omar joined a crowd of boys to gather night¬ 
ingale’s nests. In the tops of the cliinnar trees the 

72 


I 


THE HOUSE OF THE IMAM 
nests were now seen, but there were no nightin¬ 
gales in them, for they had flown to warmer cli¬ 
mates to escape the coming winter. The boys 
threw stones and whirled sticks at the cottony 
sacks, and many nests were successfully brought 
down in that manner. The golden-throated singers 
would have no use for their old nests the next 
season, for nightingales must have a new home every 
spring. 

Ravenous, the boys returned to their homes for 
food, as they had romped the fields all morning long 
in the sparkling autumn air. Omar walked into the 
tentshop with several empty nightingale’s nests. He 
gave the finest one to little Bulbul, who was the 
namesake of the sweet singers. 

“Here is a good place for that big nest,” said 
Omar’s mother, and Omar hung it over a niche in 
the wall where his mother kept the Ispahani copper 
pitcher. Ibrahim picked two nests and hung them 
over each side of his loom. 

“By thy precious life,” he cried to his son, “the 
great teacher has been here, and he has chosen you 
with two other boys to be his student!” 

“And who are the other two?” spoke Omar. “Ni¬ 
zam must be one, and who is the other?” 

“Hassan, the grandson of Hadji Mukhtar,” said 
Ibrahim. “You are to live in the Imam’s house and 
breathe the atmosphere of wisdom. May Khoda 
make you a wise man.” 


73 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 

“Khoda knows,” cried Omar, “I will make you 
proud of me!” 

He had dreamed of one day sitting at the feet of 
the great teacher, but had hardly hoped that such 
a thing would come to pass. He went to work at the 
loom with a contented soul, to accomplish as much 
as he could, now that his days of tentmaking were 
few. 

A heavy frost had descended upon the vineyards 
of Naishapur. The vine leaves which the hail had 
spared now fell upon the earth of their own accord. 
Omar walked out with his father to old Zalam’s 
vineyard, where new vines had just been planted. 
Omar’s uncle was covering them in the ground for 
protection against the biting cold which was to fall 
in the winter months. The tentmaker and his son 
took spades and helped cover the young branches. 
Every spade of earth that Omar threw down on the 
vines was thrown in the name of Khoda, a habit 
learned as he listened to his father, for Ibrahim 
was a pious man. At one end of the vineyard lay 
bundles of vines that had been pruned in the spring. 
Some of these Omar and his father carried home. 

“There will be plenty of fuel,” said Ibrahim to 
his son, “but this winter will be the worst we have 
seen. There will be a shortage of wheat, and those 
that husbanded the golden grain will live and those 
that did not will suffer even unto death.” 


74 


THE HOUSE OF THE IMAM 

“Father, do we have enough grain?” 

“Yes, son, we have enough to keep from starva¬ 
tion, but when there is famine in the land one can 
not keep the life-giving food all to one’s self. When 
people are hungry they will come into your very 
home and take the food away from you.” 

“I can not blame them for that,” spoke Omar. “I 
might do the same thing.” 

“A hungry mouth is hard to control,” said Ibra¬ 
him. 

Then a silence overtook them both. The tent- 
maker had a foreboding that calamity would befall 
Naishapur. The father and son trailed along with 
the great loads of dried grape vines, and with some 
difficulty managed to pull through the courtyard 
gate. Ibrahim unloosed his load and it fell to the 
ground, and Omar, feeling himself a seasoned load 
carrier, attempted to unload himself as did his 
father, but the rope did not give way. It became en¬ 
tangled with the vines and Omar struggled to loosen 
it. When at last the load fell to the ground it 
brought Omar down with it. Ibrahim gave a short 
laugh, while for a moment he forgot his painful 
thoughts of the coming winter. 

Early on the morning when he was to appear be¬ 
fore his teacher, Omar folded his Koran in his small 
bundle of clothing, placed it under his arm, and de¬ 
parted from his father’s gate into the street. He saw 

75 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
boys chasing donkeys and heard caravan leaders 
shouting and cursing their beasts that were too tired 
to move. Omar trotted along, hardly realizing 
that he was soon to be in the home of the great 
teacher. 

The Imam’s house was some distance from the 
tentshop, and Omar passed through parts of the 
city not familiar to his eagle eyes. The architecture 
created a different atmosphere, for it was somber and 
dignified in appearance. There were few children 
playing in the streets, and the air was laden with less 
noise than in his own section of the town. 

He thought, “I must be quiet, but where does my 
master live?” 

Omar wished to be the first in his teacher’s house, 
for it was understood that the boy arriving for the 
first time in a new school would be the first in the 
class. He halted a parash who was passing impor¬ 
tantly by. 

“I am your sacrifice, will you show me the Imam’s 
house?” 

The officer gave Omar a dark face. 

“Why do you ask me where the Imam lives? 
What are you, a thief?” And the officer gave Omar 
another black look. 

“No, in the name of Khoda,” replied the student. 
“I am going to his house to begin my studies.” 

“You are no student,” snorted the officer. “Stu¬ 
dents do not dress like mule drivers.” 


76 


THE HOUSE OF THE IMAM 

Omar became indignant when the officer referred 
to his poor clothing. 

“Fine clothes do not make good students.” 

“What makes a good student then?” 

“Knowing the Koran,” replied Omar, and he 
pulled out the holy book and showed it to the officer. 
“Can you read?” 

“No, I can not read.” 

“Ho, with that fine coat and shining dagger you 
can not read! And what can you do except whip 
people?” 

“Who are you?” demanded the officer. “And who 
is your father?” 

“I am Omar, the son of Ibrahim, the tentmaker.” 

“Oh, you are the son of Ibrahim? May Khoda 
give him long life and a place in Paradise. He is 
pious and visits the mosque every Friday. In the 
name of Khoda, he will some day make a tent for 
me. Come, I will take you to the Imam’s house.” 

Omar walked importantly beside the officer, tak¬ 
ing two steps to one of the man’s strides. 

“Here is the Imam’s house,” said the parash. 
“Now there is a big dog in the courtyard, and it is 
very vicious, therefore I will go in with you. The 
dog will not attack me, for we are friends.” 

“How so?” said Omar. 

“Because he sees me every day, and occasionally 
I give him bread and cheese, and he is grateful for 
that,” added the officer. 


77 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 

“A grateful dog is better than an ungrateful 
man,” spoke Omar. 

The officer gave him a pleasant look this time, 
for he knew the wisdom of what Omar said. 

The parash and Omar entered the court. The dog 
rose and looked ugly for an instant, but soon began 
shaking its tail, and, with its nose to the ground, 
trotted to the parash. The officer gave the dog a 
piece of cheese and patted its head and rubbed its 
ears. Then he pointed to Omar, indicating that he 
was a friend. 

The Imam came out of the house and thanked the 
parash for conducting his new student safely. Omar 
walked proudly with the great teacher through an 
arched doorway, beneath a balcony that was upheld 
by five great wooden pillars, carved by the master 
wood carver of Naishapur. The door opened into a 
hallway paved with shining tiles, from which a curv¬ 
ing stair led to the upper chambers where Omar, 
Nizam and Hassan were to live during their student 
days. These rooms were removed from the apart¬ 
ments of the Imam’s family, and the students would 
go and come by this stairway without ever seeing 
the other members of the household. 

Nizam had already arrived, and the boys greeted 
each other joyfully. 

“How did you pass the dog?” asked Omar. 

“It was terrible,” responded Nizam. “Khoda 

78 


THE HOUSE OF THE IMAM 
knows if the Imam had not appeared the dog would 
have eaten my heart.” 

As Omar and Nizam were thus exchanging greet¬ 
ings, a murderous howl sounded in the courtyard be¬ 
low. Hassan had made his appearance with the 
escort of a servant. The dog made a leap on Hassan 
and tore his fine coat to pieces, but in return the 
vicious animal received a good clubbing at the hands 
of Hassan’s servant. 

“Can you not be a gentleman, Loti?” called the 
Imam from the balcony. When the dog heard its 
master’s voice, it reluctantly left Hassan, and the 
servant withdrew, uttering oaths in the name of 
Khoda that such a dog would soon die. 

All three boys were now safely in the Imam’s 
house. 

Since Nizam had arrived first, he was made the first 
in the little school. Omar, having arrived second and 
Hassan third, respectively took their places at the 
feet of the great teacher. 



CHAPTER VI 

THE SEED OF WISDOM 

Now began a new life for Omar. For days at a 
time the boys saw no one but their teacher and the 
servant, Hatim, who attended to their simple wants. 
The boys rose early in the morning, at the call of 
Hatim. Omar, accustomed to early hours at the 
tentshop, was usually the first to rise. Nizam would 
slowly rub his eyes, stretch his muscles, and shove 
himself out of his bed, and in a minute or two Has- 
san would crawl out sullenly. The boys went out 
from their sleeping quarters into the courtyard, 
where there was a pool of clear water. Omar rolled 

80 


* 






THE SEED OF WISDOM 
up his wide sleeves and washed his hands. Then he 
took out a wooden comb, the shape of a half moon, 
and combed his hair. Nizam and Hassan did the 
same, and now they were ready to begin their day of 
school by first partaking of their breakfast of bread 
with mast and honey. They squatted on the floor 
and ate from the common bowl, dipping their bread 
into the thick sour milk. 

Having had their breakfast, they entered the 
study, which was warmed with charcoal in a brazier, 
and sat on the reed-covered floor. Nizam sat close 
to the charcoal fire, Omar sat next and after him 
came Hassan, and they began studying their lessons. 

Without a thorough study of the Koran, no knowl¬ 
edge was complete, and the great Imam drilled his 
three students in the principles of the holy book 
and interpreted the meaning. Omar soon distin¬ 
guished himself by his fine memory. After reading 
his lesson twice he could repeat it word for word, 
but nevertheless he was not greatly interested in the 
word of Allah. 

“Who knows,” he would say in his own heart, 
“that this is the truth?” and with that he forgot 
his soul, and turned to his mathematics. “Ah, here 
is the truth! Two and two make four, and no one 
can deny that.” 

Nizam was interested in the Koran more than 
any other subject, for the Koran satisfied his legal 
mind, and the interpretations cited by the great 

81 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
teacher became equally as important as the holy book 
itself. 

Hassan was the least studious of the three. He 
cared little for the Koran, and the science of mathe¬ 
matics taxed his mind too much for comfort. But 
he had to excel in something, and he chose calig- 
raphy. When the teacher praised the fine curves 
and artistic lines with which he embellished his 
writing, that pleased him greatly. 

A step was heard on the stair, and soon the Imam 
entered the study room with all the dignity that be¬ 
fits the profession of teaching. 

“ Khob , what have the boys been doing this morn¬ 
ing?” he said, with a twinkle in his eye. “Not fight¬ 
ing with each other, I hope?” 

“No, master, we have been reading our lessons.” 

“So I trust. Give me proof of your diligence by 
reciting Sura III from the holy book.” And Nizam, 
with fine voice, recited the chapter as though he were 
performing before Khoda. 

“Your seriousness can not be questioned,” re¬ 
sponded the teacher, “and you will become a great 
leader and law-giver of Iran.” 

Now Omar recited the same chapter. Even though 
he had it memorized in two readings, yet his voice 
was the voice of indifference. The teacher gave him 
a stern look, then had him take his book of mathe¬ 
matics. Omar’s eyes sparkled as he listened to the 
discourse on mathematics; and the Imam, though 

82 


THE SEED OF WISDOM 
he doubted Omar’s regard for religion, yet never 
for one moment questioned his interest in the science 
of numbers. 

“I shall expect great things from you, Omar, in 
this field, but knowing and believing the word of 
Allah is most important.” 

“I am your sacrifice,” cried Omar, “but why do 
we call Khoda by the name of Allah in the school¬ 
room and read his word in a strange language? Why 
was the holy book not written in Persian? Our 
language is much sweeter than Arabic.” 

“Because the great prophet to whom Khoda re¬ 
vealed His will was an Arab and not a Persian.” 

Omar still wondered why one of his own country¬ 
men had not received the divine revelations, but he 
had a wise head and kept his further thoughts to 
himself. 

“Now, Hassan, recite to me the word of Allah,” 
said the Imam. The teacher had for some time 
doubted the sincerity of Hassan, but he knew his 
lessons and no pupil can be harshly dealt with when 
he knows his daily task and performs it well. Has¬ 
san repeated the chapter with trembling voice and 
with such effect as to charm even Omar. 

“Hassan,” said his teacher, “you are doing well 
in the Koran, but let us hope that you are sincere in 
it, as your voice indicates. Now let me see your 
writing exercises.” 

Hassan handed his first, for he was first in the 

83 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
art of penmanship. Nizam was next and Omar last. 
Omar’s handwriting was heavy and exceedingly plain. 
Hassan’s handwriting could not be duplicated. His 
strokes were perfect. Now the teacher was satisfied 
that he had three students that excelled one another 
in their own fields. “Khoda be praised,” he said, 
as he left the three boys to themselves again. 

Hatim called the boys to lunch. They rushed 
out like hungry bears that had not had anything 
to eat all winter. The common bowl, which con¬ 
tained shorba , was placed before the hungry stu¬ 
dents, and ravenously they ate the savory stew, dip¬ 
ping it out with pieces of the flat, hard bread. At 
this time of day, studies and aims of life were for¬ 
gotten. Hatim made a second call, bringing with 
him cheese and more bread. Omar enjoyed this 
simple food, for it was the kind of food eaten in his 
own home. He took a long flat piece of bread, spread 
it with cheese, and folded it twice. 

“Khoda be praised,” said Nizam, as he finished 
his last portion of food. 

“Yes,” said Hassan, “may Khoda give us plenty 
to eat.” 

Nizam, being the eldest of the three, proceeded 
first to his studies, and earnestly and with great rev¬ 
erence opened the pages of his Koran. Omar took 
up his mathematics, and Hassan started copying a 
portion of the Koran, embellishing it as he went 
along. 


84 


THE SEED OF WISDOM 

The sun was now making headway toward his eve¬ 
ning rest. The shadows of the poplar trees that 
circled the Imam’s courtyard grew gradually toward 
the east and cast long and pointed lines upon the 
ground. It was now time for afternoon recitation. 

“Are the boys ready?” a voice was heard calling 
beneath their study room. This was the call of 
Hatim, the servant. 

“In the name of Khoda, we are ready,” said Nizam, 
and the three boys descended to the Imam’s garden. 
The teacher was now walking in the winter sunshine, 
and repeating the Koran as he strolled. A little 
girl was running beside him, bouncing her ball of 
many colors on the flat stones of the walk around the 
tiled pool. This was Laylf, the child of the Imam’s 
old age, the eye of his heart, who was allowed many 
privileges that her older sisters, long grown to 
womanhood, had never had. Layli had never been 
restricted, as they had been, to the women’s quarters 
nor to her mother’s garden, enclosed with high 
walls. 

“How are my students, and how many verses of 
the Koran can you repeat to me?” the Imam greeted 
the boys. 

Omar this time knew more verses than Nizam. 

“Memorizing is a gift from Khoda,” said the 
Imam, “but do you understand the meaning of the 
word as Nizam does?” 

“That I can not tell,” responded Omar, “for I 

85 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
know nothing of the hereafter. But this life is good 
enough. I will use it and enjoy it.” 

The shrewd Hassan said nothing, neither believ¬ 
ing nor denying the meaning of the book. At each 
step, when Omar became controversial in the points 
raised in the Koran, the eyes of the Imam twinkled, 
for he was too great a teacher to discourage Omar 
from having thoughts of his own. 

“Learn, my boy, learn,” he said, “but be sure to 
practice what you learn.” 

“Yes, master,” said Omar thoughtfully. “Know¬ 
ing the Koran is one thing and practicing it is some¬ 
thing else.” 

“If every one would practice the teaching of the 
Koran, this universe would be perfect,” spoke Nizam. 

“How?” responded Hassan. 

“Because everybody would be good, and if every¬ 
body were good there would be no 'parash hashie, and 
the office of the governor of Naishapur would be 
vacant, for, when people do no wrong, what need 
have they of governors to watch them and jailers 
to punish them?” 

“Khoda be praised,” said the Imam as he was ex¬ 
ercising his students under the shadow of the poplar 
trees in the cold fresh air of declining day. “This 
is enough for to-day. My blood is too thick and 
can not stand much cold.” 

The teacher left them, and the boys began play¬ 
ing leap-frog and throwing a ball of yarn about, 

86 


THE SEED OF WISDOM 
but soon their play was ended by the call of azan 
from the mosque. Saying the prayers was a part of 
the curriculum of the great teacher, and the boys 
turned their faces toward the setting sun and ob¬ 
served the common practice of their fathers. 

Their school day had now come to an end. The 
Imam was satisfied and the students were happy. 
The sun dropped behind the hills and soon Naisha- 
pur was in darkness. Omar lighted the lamp and they 
all crowded together under it to study their lessons 
for to-morrow. Hassan yawned. He was growing 
sleepy. Nizam had buried his head in his Koran and 
Omar was figuring out his equations. 

“Have we not studied enough for to-night?” spoke 
Hassan. “Is it not time now for some recreation?” 

Nizam’s eyes were tired from the poor light, and 
he rubbed them and closed his Koran. Omar went 
ahead with his figuring, shaking his head mourn¬ 
fully. His equations were not coming true, and he 
would not sleep that night until a positive answer 
was had. He ran his hand through his hair, twisted 
his mouth, and finally gave a big yawn, stretching 
out his lean arms toward the ceiling above him. At 
last a lovely expression came to his face. His eyes 
twinkled and his mouth wore a broad smile. 

“I have solved the problem, and the next will not 
be so hard to solve.” 

“You have worked enough for the night,” said 
Nizam. “It is time now to rest.” 


87 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 

“Well said,” responded Hassan. “Omar, tell us 
the story of Zal and Rustam.” 

Omar could not be persuaded. Had Nizam asked 
the favor it might have been different. Omar had 
made friends with Hassan, but he did not love and 
trust him as he did Nizam. Hassan was the grand¬ 
son of Hadji Mukhtar, and a crust of the same loaf. 

“The night is very clear,” said Omar. “Let us go 
out and watch the rising moon. It is a full moon and 
it will look as big as the white bowl from Ispahan 
we saw the other day.” 

“The moon and stars are too far away to be of 
any importance to me,” said Hassan. “I like to be 
entertained.” 

“ Khob” spoke Omar, “what is more beautiful 
than to look at the heavenly things that Khoda has 
created?” 

“It is cold outside,” said Hassan. 

“The air is clear and I am not afraid of it,” re¬ 
marked Nizam, and Omar led Nizam and the reluc¬ 
tant Hassan down from their room into the court¬ 
yard. They climbed to the housetop to view the rising 
moon, and as they ascended the last step a silver 
rim was seen emerging from the horizon. The boys 
watched the moon as it rose completely. 

“How wonderful the moon is!” said Omar. “Now 
it is full and it will soon become smaller and smaller.” 

“That is the part I do not understand,” said Has¬ 
san. “The sun is always the same.” 

88 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 

“Maybe some one some day will find out why it 
is.” 

The lamp was still flickering away as the boys 
returned to their room. From lack of attention it 
was almost dying out. The boys undressed for the 
night, and Omar, being the last to retire, approached 
the lamp and gave it a whiff which blew it out. 

“In the name of Khoda, why did you do that? It 
is bad luck to blow your breath against pure fire,” 
cried Nizam. “Do you not know that our ancestors 
from the days of old have had a great regard and 
respect for fire? It will surely bring us bad luck.” 

“But the light is out, and what are we to do about 
it?” said Omar. 

“It is best to light it again and put it out with 
your fingers. It is not good to play with fate.” 

“What is to be, no one can change,” said Omar. 
“But if it will make you sleep better I will do as 
you say.” 

Omar, after having lighted the lamp, took hold 
of the wick with his thumb and forefinger and 
squeezed the flame out. The room was now in com¬ 
plete darkness. Omar closed his eyes, but before 
him the moon was still rising and the stars were still 
shining until sleep overcame him and prepared his 
tired mind for another day. 



CHAPTER VII 
THE DARK ANGEL 

Meanwhile the fears of Ibrahim the tentmaker 
were realized. The grain that had been gleaned from 
the fields of Naishapur in the scanty harvest had 
already been exhausted. It was now the end of win¬ 
ter, and the wheat chests of many homes were nearly 
empty, and the hand mills every day did less twirling 
than the day before. 

“Khoda have mercy upon us,” said Ibrahim one 
evening when his wife informed him that there was 
only enough wheat to supply the family for half a 
moon. 


90 





THE DARK ANGEL 

“Our neighbor, Abasi, told me their wheat chest 
is empty,” responded Ibrahim sorrowfully, “and they 
would be grateful if we could give them a few 
measures of wheat.” 

“But Khoda knows how little we have.” 

“ Khob , what must we do? Let Abasi and his 
family starve?” 

“Then give them what you think should be given.” 

Ibrahim took a measure of wheat and delivered it 
to his neighbor, saying, “Khoda will be kind to 
everybody if we are good to each other.” 

Now Abasi was a man of good quality, and in re¬ 
turn he presented Ibrahim with a bowl of nuts and 
a full measure of raisins, even though he was deny¬ 
ing himself such luxuries. Bread he must have, for 
without it the thread of life would soon be severed. 

But there were certain places in the realm where 
wheat was plentiful and cheap. The grain mer¬ 
chants, knowing the shortage of wheat in Naishapur 
and its outlying districts, made haste to load up 
their caravans and send wheat to the starving people. 
The golden grain soon began pouring into the grain 
market, but who was able to purchase such a precious 
article? Now nothing but gold could buy the wheat 
and sustain the thread of life. 

Ibrahim had made two tents, and he took them to 
the grain market to exchange them for wheat. All 
his labor and fine work would only bring two measures 
of wheat. 


91 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 

“Khoda knows,” he told the grain merchant, “this 
will last but from Juma to Juma; and what 
then?” 

“Khoda knows,” replied the grain merchant. 

“But I can not let you have all this work for so 
little wheat.” 

“ Khob , if you can not, then go and eat your tents.” 

Then Ibrahim took his tents across to another 
grain merchant. 

“Give me wheat for my tents.” 

“Khoda knows that wheat is hard to be had, but 
since I need tents on my journeys I shall give half 
a measure. That will keep you alive for a day or 
so.” 

“I am your sacrifice, but I have a family, my wife 
and two daughters.” 

“And do you not have a son?” asked the mer¬ 
chant. 

“In the name of Khoda, I have a son,” replied 
Ibrahim proudly. 

“Do you not feed him, too?” 

“No, he lives in the household of Imam Mowaf- 
fak, the great teacher.” 

“Son of a dog,” shouted the grain merchant. 
“Any more lies from you and I shall throw you in 
that aqueduct and drown you like a rat.” 

“No hope, no hope,” thought Ibrahim, and he 
returned to the first merchant and exchanged his 
tents for two measures of wheat. 


92 


THE DARK ANGEL 

Now famine began in the city of Naishapur. The 
wheat, even the supply of rice and beans, was ex¬ 
hausted, and the price of the golden grain soared 
high. The grain merchants tightened up the strings 
of their wheat sacks harder and harder. The hungry 
people stripped the bark of the trees and ate it. 
Even the pet animals were not spared, for hunger 
is stronger than affection. The caravans of wheat 
from Ispahan and Hamadan kept coming, but the 
worldy goods were valued higher than human life, 
and life perished every day. 

Even at the door of the Imam, the spectre of 
hunger knocked, and the three students, though they 
had enough to eat, found their appetites curtailed. 

“May your morning be blessed,” the Imam one 
day greeted his students. “I have given all my gold 
for the poor and have opened my storehouse to share 
with the needy. I have reduced my own eating, for 
an old man needs very little food.” 

Omar did not wait to have his teacher tell them 
what they were to do. 

“I can do without a second piece of bread and 
without honey,” he said. 

Nizam responded that he also could do without 
honey on his mast. Hassan said nothing. He was 
not in the habit of curtailing his pleasures for the 
sake of others. 

When the boys were called to breakfast next morn¬ 
ing, the bowl of mast was placed in the middle of 

93 


THE YOUNG TENT MAKER 
the floor as usual, but there was no honey and only 
three pieces of bread. 

“This would taste better with honey,” Hassan 
grumbled. “It is on your account that I have to do 
without it.” 

But Nizam reminded him that they must curb 
their appetites for the sake of the poor. While they 
were thus arguing over the fact that they had to do 
without honey, the lanky Omar was having more 
than his share of mast. Soon the bowl was licked dry, 
and none had enough. In front of each student was 
placed an egg. They cracked the shells and drank 
the eggs, for the Imam believed that eggs should be 
eaten almost raw. 

At noonday there was only bread and cheese. Has¬ 
san could not eat bread and cheese without sherbet, 
for in his father’s house he was brought up with 
luxuries. But Nizam did without sherbet as Omar 
did, and did not mind the lack. His humble spirit 
adjusted itself to difficult tasks, and doing without 
sherbet at this time was an act of piety. 

One day Omar went on a visit to the tentshop. 
He had not yet realized the full extent of the hard¬ 
ship that was being endured by the common folk. 
Now he learned that two children in his father’s 
neighborhood had already died of hunger, and he 
saw with anxious eyes that his own parents and sis¬ 
ters looked very pale and thin. There was still food 
in the house, but very little, and Amina doled it out 

94 


THE DARK ANGEL 

carefully, for it would be many weeks until there 
could be hope of a new harvest. Omar returned to 
his teacher’s house in a sorrowing mood. Even the 
Imam, with all his wealth and piety, could not feed 
everybody. Many would surely starve, unless help 
came from Khoda in some unexpected way. 

“Omar, why do you have that veil of misery on 
your face?” asked Nizam, as the young tentmaker 
returned at sunset to the study room and opened his 
books under the lamplight. 

“The people are dying of hunger,” said Omar, 
“and the grain merchants have no feeling for them. 
There is plenty of grain, they say, in the market, 
but its price is its weight in gold and who can buy? 
The hungry people should go to the wheat market 
and help themselves.' If the grain merchants at¬ 
tempt to stop them they should be thrown in the 
aqueduct.” 

“That would be uprising against authority!” 
cried Hassan, much alarmed by Omar’s excited 
manner. 

“What is authority when the people are starving?” 
And Omar’s eyes blazed with indignation. 

Nizam looked at Omar with sympathy. “The 
people can not go hungry too long or something 
serious will happen,” he said. “If authority can 
not help Khoda’s creatures, it is worth nothing. But 
what can we do?” And he tried, like Omar, to put 

95 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
aside these perplexing thoughts by diligent attention 
to his lessons. 

Meanwhile the Imam was anxiously pondering the 
same difficult problem. Each day more people came, 
and smaller and smaller portions of food had to be 
given out, that none might go away empty-handed. 
Soon the large storehouse would be empty, and what 
then? Long and earnestly the Imam meditated, seek¬ 
ing the will of Khoda. 

The Imam did not appear at the accustomed hour 
to hear his students’ lessons. Instead Hatim came to 
say that there would be no recitation that day, and 
that Hassan was desired to come to the Imam. In 
some wonderment, Hassan arose and followed the 
servant. Omar and Nizam, left alone, looked at each 
other with serious faces that betrayed their unspoken 
thoughts. Perhaps sorrowful tidings awaited Has¬ 
san. 

Hassan stood in silence before the Imam. Hatim 
withdrew, and the teacher and the student were alone. 
The Imam looked with his keen eyes into Hassan’s 
face. 

“I desire, Hassan, that you go to your grand¬ 
father with a message. I send it by you that this 
may not be known to any one else. Tell your grand¬ 
father that he must help the hungry people. It is 
the will of Khoda, and to Khoda shall he answer if 
he does not extend his hand in mercy. He is the lord 

96 


THE DARK ANGEL 

of Naishapur. It is in his power to open the stores 
of grain and distribute to the people according to 
their needs. If he should refuse, you are not to come 
back to my house, and all Naishapur shall know why 
the governor’s grandson is no longer my student.” 

Hassan listened with his eyes cast down, in the 
respectful attitude of a pupil before his master. He 
knew what the Imam might suspect. Hadji Mukhtar 
was one of the greatest grain hoarders in the city, and 
he was reaping profit from the people’s misery. 
Hassan was shrewd enough to know that the Imam 
had pricked the very spot wherein his grandfather 
might be wounded. Verily, the Imam was the wisest 
of men, and Hassan, though he cared little for his 
teacher’s piety, always respected the great learning 
and the authority in his voice. Hadji Mukhtar him¬ 
self did not appear more the man of power. 

“Is it my master’s wish that I go to my grand¬ 
father at once?” asked Hassan. 

“Yes, go now. You can not tell him too soon,” said 
the great teacher. “And tell him also that a few of 
these grain merchants should be bastinadoed in the 
Maidan Khana.” 

“This he will do,” replied Hassan, for he knew 
how cruel his grandfather could be to make a show 
of justice. 

Hassan spoke the truth, for he returned to the 
Imam before sunset with the message that Hadji 

97 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
Mukhtar would obey the wish of the Imam as the 
will of Khoda. Early in the morning the lord of 
Naishapur had trumpets to be sounded at all the 
gates of the city. He had announced throughout the 
town that, as head of the government of Naishapur, 
he was having the grain merchants whipped for their 
cruelty and inhumanity, and all the storehouses of 
wheat and rice would be opened, that the people might 
have food and regain their strength. 

The people then had plenty to eat, and several 
grain merchants were thrown into prison. Hadji 
Mukhtar, when he did anything, did it thoroughly, 
and he had the grain merchants stripped of all their 
possessions to be divided among the needy. They 
were then as poor as the people whom they had tried 
to starve. That made some people happy, for human 
nature is vindictive, and they rejoiced that Khoda 
had in time taken His vengeance. 

But the act of mercy and charity had come too 
late for many, for the great suffering of the people 
had reduced their strength, so that it could not 
stand the invading force of cholera which followed 
in the wake of famine. Many old folk and little 
children perished, even many of the strong. One 
night the dark angel visited the home of Ibrahim 
and took away Bulbul, the younger sister of Omar. 
Bulbul had seen only six summers, and her cheeks 
were as beautiful as the rose petals of Shiraz. She 
was buried in the old cemetery near the tentshop. A 

98 


THE DARK ANGEL 

flat stone was placed over her grave, and nothing 
could disturb her from her long sleep. 

Every one was now in great fear, and a great cry 
went to Khoda to stop the plague. 

“O Khoda,” cried Omar, “my little sister is 
gone! My uncle and my two cousins have departed 
from life, and I saw dead lying in the streets of 
Naishapur. Is there any force that can stop this 
plague?” 

That night a little wind blew over Naishapur and 
snow fell sparingly on the new graves and covered 
the flat stones with a white mantle. The fresh 
wind brought life and healing, and gradually the 
stricken city was freed from the plague. But the sun 
of Nurooz rose over sad hearts and grief-stricken 
households. The plague had left many mothers with¬ 
out their first born, and some parents had lost the 
only child they had. There was no rejoicing over 
the end of winter. None had the heart to bring glad 
tidings to his neighbor. Every family stayed in 
their own home beside their own charcoal fire. Mer¬ 
chants went to their shops without hope of doing 
business. By the sign of the sun, beginning its 
longer circle, spring had come, but it was still the 
winter of solitude and grief in the hearts of the 
people. 

Omar sadly left the tentshop to return to his 
teacher’s house. 

“Who knows the will of Khoda?” he thought. “He 

99 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
gave us earth in which to plant our seed and the sun 
to make life and heat. Then He sends hail and 
destroys what gives us life. He visits us with plague 
and pestilence, and takes away my little sister. What 
is the answer? 0 Khoda, what is the answer?” 

The wind, blowing through the limbs of a dead 
chinnar tree, seemed to wail, “No one knows. None 
has seen and none can understand Khoda.” 

Little Bulbul had gone, the nightingale had flown, 
but no one knew whither. Then Omar held his head 
in his hands and wept. 



CHAPTER VIII 

THE POTTER’S HOUSE 

The lord of the universe was making longer and 
longer journeys every day across the sky, and was 
continually swinging his course toward the northern 
plain of Naishapur. The storks and nightingales 
were once more in the neighborhood, and the air was 
full of chirpings and song long before sunrise. The 
nightingale that was nesting in the Imam’s court¬ 
yard had just ceased his golden melody as Omar 
opened his eyes upon the spring air, fresh with the 
morning dew. He dressed quickly and shouted to his 
companions, almost bursting with the joy of living. 

101 






THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 

“Arise, my friends, arise, for the sun has risen 
and the light is everywhere!” 

Nizam opened his eyes into a shaft of light that 
had lighted the top of a tall poplar tree and sharply 
descended through a small window into the boys’ 
room. 

“Up with you, up with you!” they both cried to 
Hassan. “Long ago the stars have fled before the 
sunlight. You know this is our day to spend in the 
bazaars.” 

It was the habit of the Imam, when the days 
became longer and spring had come, to take his 
students at least one day a week into the fields 
and gardens of Naishapur to reveal to them the 
ways of nature, or into the market place to show 
them the various products that were made or sold 
in the city. 

The boys were soon ready for breakfast, which 
was quickly eaten and forgotten. This day they need 
not follow the regular routine of their daily tasks. 
They proudly followed their teacher into the court¬ 
yard. The dog eyed Hassan with suspicion, for, 
ever since Hassan’s bodyguard had clubbed it, the 
dog had never made up with him, and it was only 
because it had such a high regard for its master, the 
Imam, that at times it did not attack Hassan. The 
dog gave a growl now, looking at Hassan as the 
Imam and his students passed. 

“I do not understand this dog of mine,” said the 

102 


THE POTTER’S HOUSE 
Imam, as they stepped out of the courtyard gate. 
“He is always in bad temper.” 

“The dog likes me,” Omar cried. “The other day 
he loosened his chain and ran and jumped all over 
me.” 

“There must be some attraction about you, Omar,” 
said Hassan. “He always growls at me.” 

“The dog does not bother me,” spoke Nizam. 

“It must be something wrong with Hassan,” said 
the Imam, with a twinkle in his eye. 

“What are we going to see to-day?” cried Omar 
as they were passing a potter’s house near by. 

“I have made no plans,” answered the Imam, 
“but we shall find something of interest before the 
morning is over.” 

Omar looked at the pots that were standing by the 
wall of the potter’s house and wondered how they were 
made. “It would take a skillful hand to mold such 
things from the common clay,” he said to his teacher 
as they turned in the opposite direction. 

The Imam looked at Omar. “If you wish to see a 
potter at his work, we can visit Master Sadig to-day. 
He is the best potter in the city of Naishapur and he 
knows all about clay. I have seen him shape the clay 
on his wheel. If he is not too busy, we can spend the 
morning in his house.” 

“In the name of Khoda,” cried Hassan, “who would 
be too busy to stop his work to visit with you?” 

The Imam did not notice the compliment, but 

103 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
silently led the way to the gate of the potter. Hassan 
had tried to flatter his teacher before, but the great 
man seemed interested in nothing but lessons well 
learned. Nor did the Imam make flattering remarks 
when his students recited their lessons in a brilliant 
manner. The boys soon learned that, when the 
teacher found no fault with their work, that was 
praise enough. 

The Imam, with his three students, soon found him¬ 
self standing before a big double door that led the 
way within the potter’s yard. The door was dis¬ 
tinguished from the neighboring gateways by two 

large bowls of pure blue color, standing one on each 

* * 

side of the door. No one ever mistook this house for 
any other than the establishment of Master Sadig, 
the potter. 

The teacher bade Omar give three knocks at the 
door, which was opened by an apprentice. 

“In the name of Khoda, what is that you desire?” 
the apprentice boy greeted the Imam and his three 
students. 

The potter, being busy with his wet clay, had 
bidden his apprentice to open the door, and, if he 
found the caller was not on the mission of doing 
business, he was to be dismissed. 

“We come to see Master Sadig. Tell him that 
Imam Mowaffak is here with his students, and they 
desire permission to watch him work and see his pots 
of clay.” 


104 


THE POTTER'S HOUSE 

“Khoda be praised, we are weak before your 
presence. Enter, pray. Do you have Omar with 
you, too?” said the apprentice boy. 

Omar gave the boy a look of surprise. “I am Omar. 
Why do you ask for me?” 

“You were an apprentice in tentmaking as I am 
in the potter’s trade,” explained the boy bashfully, 
“and I have heard of your now being the student of 
the Imam. It made me happy to hear of an ap¬ 
prentice meeting with such honor. I shall always 
pray for your great future.” 

The Imam gave the boy a pleased and kindly look 
as he passed through the gate. This boy, he thought, 
might in time become a greater potter than his 
master, whose work was the finest in the city of 
Naishapur. 

Breathlessly the apprentice boy ran into the house 
and announced, “Khoda knows, the Imam of Naisha¬ 
pur is here. He is in the courtyard.” 

Sadig looked at him surprised, but he did not 
doubt his apprentice, for he had never yet found 
him to be anything but truthful. Wiping his wet 
hands on his mud-spattered apron, he walked out into 
the courtyard. 

“Khoda has been good to me to lead your feet 
into my house,” he greeted the Imam. 

“It is Khoda’s will that we come here,” responded 
the teacher. 

Omar looked at the potter. He was a ruddy-faced 

105 


THE YOUNG TENT MAKER 
man of middle age, dressed much like his own father. 
He was, like Ibrahim, a master of his trade, and Omar 
respected him at once. The teacher began introduc¬ 
ing his students one by one to the potter. 

“This is Nizam,” he said. “He is well versed in 
the Koran, and is to be a future law-giver of Iran. 
This boy is Omar.” 

“Oh, yes, I know,” said the potter wisely, “the 
son of Ibrahim the tentmaker. From the tentshop 
to the feet of the great teacher is a far journey. 
What will be his work in the future?” 

“He will be a scientist, a mathematician, and 
Khoda knows what he may accomplish.” 

“What will this boy be?” asked the potter, as he 
looked at Hassan. 

“Khoda knows,” said the Imam, not feeling sure of 
Hassan’s future. “But he is already accomplished in 
the art of caligraphy.” 

Then the Imam requested the potter to fetch them 
some water to drink, for the walk had made them all 
thirsty. 

A vessel was soon brought by the apprentice, and 
made its rounds, beginning with the teacher. The 
Imam lifted it to his lips, but before taking a drink 
he spilled a few drops on the ground. 

Omar watched his master. “Why do you spill 
some water on the ground?” he asked. 

“It is best, my boy, to give water to our ancestors 
first, lest we forget what we owe them who gave us 

106 


THE POTTER’S HOUSE 
life. We, of course, do not see their souls, but we can 
give drink to the earth that received their bodies ages 
ago.” 

Nizam took the vessel and followed the teacher’s 
example. Then Omar threw a few drops for the earth 
to drink before he drank himself, and Hassan, who 
already knew the custom, spilled a few drops on the 
ground. Although he did not care much for his an¬ 
cestors, yet it was the part of wisdom to quench the 
fire of thirst in some one’s soul. 

The teacher and his three students followed the 
potter as he conducted them into his establishment. 
The apprentice trailed behind, eyeing the visitors as 
though they were angels from heaven, and keeping 
his bright eyes mostly upon Omar, the son of a 
tentmaker. The boys gave close attention to what 
the potter told them as he led them round and showed 
them his pots and explained the processes that gave 
them the fine glaze and beautiful colors. There 
were vessels of all shapes and sizes. Some were lean¬ 
ing against the wall, and others that were newly made 
the potter had placed on the floor to dry. 

Omar viewed the potter’s wheel with eager curi¬ 
osity, and the Imam requested the favor for his 
students of seeing how a pot was made. The good- 
natured potter was proud of his skill, and at once 
took up the lump of wet clay that he had laid down to 
greet the Imam. It had partially dried out in the 
interval and he immersed it in a bowl of water and 


107 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
worked it up wet and sticky into a round mass which 
he placed on his wheel. Keeping the wheel turning, 
he deftly manipulated the clay, shaping it with his 
skillful hands, hollowing out the round mass, mold¬ 
ing the thin and curving sides, until the texture of 
the clay was right and the shape perfect to the eye. 
Then he stopped the wheel, and the bowl stood still, 
its wet sides smooth as glass. 

“What skill, what wonderful skill!” cried Omar. 

“But this clay is wonderful, too,” said the potter, 
taking up another bit and working it in his strong 
fingers. “Clay has life even as we have, and it is the 
most important part of the universe besides the sun. 
See how a seed planted in the soil in time shoots forth. 
The clay makes a way for it to come and breathe the 
fresh air and sunshine. It nurses the seed as a 
mother does her child. We are all made of clay. The 
first man was made from clay and the last man will 
turn into clay. How do we know but that some of 
these very pots are not the flesh and blood of some 
departed soul that long ago passed behind the veil? 
Some of my clay was brought from Ecbatana, the 
ancient capital, where many kings and princes have 
been buried in generations past. It may be some of 
these vessels are portions of them.” 

“Queen Esther is buried near Ecbatana,” said 
Omar, for the Imam had told his students of the 
Jewish girl who had pleased the great Persian king 
and become his queen. 


108 


THE POTTER'S HOUSE 

“That is true,” responded the potter. “And the 
vessel from which some one tastes in joy may be made 
of the clay of her beautiful frame, turned to dust 
these ages gone. It may well be, and, in fact, I be¬ 
lieve that my pots have understanding. When I am 
shaping a pot or working with my clay, I can some¬ 
times hear it whisper, ‘Gently, do not be too rough 
with me, brother.’ And when I feel the clay vessels are 
talking, I gently put them in water and begin to 
polish the rough spots, almost caressing the clay 
as though it were my own child.” 

Omar had spied a pot half hidden behind some 
others, a poor crooked thing that looked out of 
place with the beautiful shapes that surrounded it. 
The potter saw Omar’s eye fall upon the misshapen 
vessel, and wagged his head solemnly. 

“A dreadful time I had with the clay that was 
sold to me from the fields of Kashan. None of the 
vessels that I made from it were good, and I destroyed 
all of them but this one. All my labor was for noth¬ 
ing, but it was impossible to make a perfect vessel 
from that clay of Kashan.” 

“Why so?” asked Omar curiously. 

“Khoda only knows,” responded the potter. “But 
I know this: I have not yet met a good man from 
Kashan. All the Kashani merchants must be 
watched. They will steal the pupil of your eye while 
you sleep.” 

“But could it be the clay that caused the pot to 

109 


THE YOUNG TENT MAKER 
be so crooked? Is the clay of Kashan so different 
from other clay? Perhaps your hand shook when 
you were molding the pot.” 

The potter gave a merry laugh, and directed a 
roguish look at the Imam. “Khoda knows this boy 
is unusual. I will have to be truthful about it, and 
may Khoda forgive me for lying. I started my work 
one morning in low spirits, and was accomplishing 
nothing, so I took some wine to stimulate me. But 
I took too much as I went along with my work, and 
toward the end I was drunk and my hand shook, and 
this is one of the vessels I made. I did not destroy 
it, but keep it just to remind me that wine in a 
potter’s house has no place.” 

“Then you drink no more?” asked Nizam seriously. 

“Nay, I can not do without the stimulating juice, 
but I do not drink when I am working. I go to my 
wine cellar and have a good refreshing drink after 
my labor for the day is done. I have a favorite wine 
jar, one that I made myself, and it and I have been 
companions for years. It understands me and talks 
to me. Every time I take a drink from it I can hear 
it whisper, ‘Drink, potter, drink, for once you are 
gone you are gone.’ ” 

“Do all the vessels talk to you, master potter?” 
inquired Omar. 

“Only a few. Most of them just listen and seem 
to be satisfied with their lot. Even the ones who talk 
do it only now and then. They have their moods just 
as we do.” 


110 


THE POTTER'S HOUSE 

“What do they say?” pursued Omar, who found 
the potter’s talk fascinating. 

“They talk more sensibly than some people,” said 
the potter, who was now at his best, enjoying to the 
full the opportunity to discourse upon his trade to 
the students of the great Imam. “This perfect bowl, 
made from the clay that I dug myself from the con¬ 
secrated soil of holy Meshed, spoke a message that 
would interest your ears, Wisest of the Wise,” he 
said to the Imam. “I made it one Juma morning after 
I had returned from the mosque, and it spoke these 
words to me, ‘Surely you will make a splendid thing 
of me, master potter. You would not take my clay 
from the ground for no purpose.’ Could one of us 
say more to Khoda who shaped us as I shaped this 
bowl?” 

The Imam looked at the potter in some surprise 
to find a philosopher among the pots of clay. They 
were about ready to depart, for it was nearly time 
for azan, according to the course of the sun. But 
Omar had not any desire at all to leave the potter’s 
house. 

“I am your sacrifice, one more question,” he said, 
turning to the master of clay, for he had remembered 
something. “Once a water carrier gave me a drink in 
my hands, and I found the water tasted sweeter than 
it does from a clay cup. Now, master potter, explain 
to me the reason of that.” 

“Why do you ask me,” said the potter, “when you 
have the wisest man of Iran for your teacher?” 

Ill 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 

“But no one knows about clay as you do. And I 
was only reminded of it here among your pots.” 

“Yes, my day begins and ends with clay,” spoke 
the potter, “and I have learned to know it well. I can 
feel life in my clay as I can see it all about me. All 
clay vessels have a bitter taste because the earth re¬ 
ceives back into itself the impurities that inhabit the 
clay bodies of men. When the soul leaves the body 
to ascend to heaven it must be purified, for to enter 
Khoda’s presence it must be as pure as Khoda made 
it. It leaves behind in the clay body all the impurities 
and bitterness of this life, for the body has served its 
purpose and needs not to be purified.” 

“But would it not be easy for Khoda to create a 
pure body, too, in which to place the pure soul?” 
inquired Omar earnestly. 

“Of course, of course,” replied the potter. 

“Then why did Khoda place such a pure thing in 
such a clay house?” 

The potter found that question too difficult, even 
for his ready wit, and the Imam came to his rescue, 
saying quietly, “We must depart, and now let us 
thank Master Sadig for his instruction and the time 
he has given to us.” The Imam was a firm believer 
that truth was known only to Khoda and that it was 
not wise to inquire too far into Khoda’s purposes. 
Thus he blocked many of Omar’s queries. 

They all saluted the potter as they left. “Khoda 
keep your head,” Master Sadig said to Omar. “You 

112 


THE POTTER'S HOUSE 
must come again. I never knew a tentmaker could 
have such a son.” 

As they left the gate, Omar took another look at 
the master potter. He saw him wandering among his 
pots. How real they were, and how important his 
trade of potter was to him! He loved his clay and 
took joy in his work. It was no wonder he was the 
finest potter of Naishapur. 

The party silently made its way through the street. 
The Imam was busy with his thoughts, and the boys 
watched with interest everything they passed. The 
call of azan came from the tower of the Juma Masj id 
as they reached its gate. They all knelt upon the 
grass in the courtyard, making their supplication and 
praise to great Khoda. Omar bowed his head down 
and prostrated his body on the ground. As he lay 
thus against the grass he seemed to hear a sound 
coming back to him from the earth, a faint whisper 
that called him, “Brother.” 



CHAPTER IX 

THE HOLY ROAD TO KERBELA 

Summer had come, and the Imam had now heard 
his students’ last lesson for the year and had pro¬ 
nounced their work good. This time Omar had made 
some equations in algebra himself and explained his 
solutions to his teacher. Such a mathematical mind 
was beyond the understanding of Nizam and Hassan. 
When they asked Omar how he could make problems 
in his head and answer them at the same time, Omar 
would point out to them that somebody had done such 
things before and why could not hep 

Nizam had always had a great respect for the small 
head of Omar. “What a mind, what a mind!” he 

114 





THE HOLY ROAD TO KERBELA 
said now, running his fingers through his hair. “I 
am being much troubled proving the equations that 
are already made for me, and Omar makes and solves 
his own.” 

But Hassan shrugged his shoulders. “Khoda did 
not make every one alike,” he said, and glanced 
proudly over his fine penmanship. 

The Imam looked at his students. They were all 
full of hope, and the future had no fear for them. 
But one thing he thought they lacked, and that was 
real piety. The Imam was now growing old and, 
feeling that his thoughtful soul would soon return 
to Khoda, he was planning to make another journey 
to Kerbela and visit the bloody plains where Hous- 
sein, the son of Ali and the grandson of the Prophet 
Mohammed, had suffered and died. The city of 
Kerbela and its plain had been sacred to the Persians 
ever since Houssein and his little band of followers 
had been murdered by the order of the usurper who 
had stolen the office of Caliph. This had happened in 
the month of Muharram. The first ten days of the 
month were now observed in commemoration of the 
martyrdom of Houssein, and services of mourning 
were held everywhere throughout Persia. The Imam, 
who was himself a descendant of the Prophet, through 
the martyr Houssein, was planning to travel to 
Kerbela to be present at the very spot of the martyr¬ 
dom during the observance of Muharram, which this 
year fell in late summer. 

115 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 

Should he take his students to Kerbela and show 
them the place where the martyrs of old had gained 
the Prophet’s Paradise? He thought it would be an 
act of piety on his part to take these boys in the 
bloom of their youth, for who knew what effect the 
pilgrimage might have on them? 

When the time came for the last walk together in 
the garden, the students found the Imam seated in 
the shadow of the wall, sipping sherbet from a blue 
cup. Laylf stood beside him, holding a tray of 
copper, for she had brought the refreshing drink to 
her father. 

“Here are the students,” said the Imam. “Will 
you not bring sherbet for them, too, my saki?” 

The young cupbearer went back to the storehouse 
across the courtyard, and soon returned, carefully 
holding the tray with three other blue cups of the 
finest workmanship of Master Sadig, the potter. 
With eyes cast down, she offered the sherbet to her 
father’s students. 

The boys sipped the sweet and cooling drink, and 
the little cupbearer departed with the cups and the 
tray. The Imam rose and strolled with his students 
along the rose-covered wall of the garden. Now he 
told them what he was about to do. 

“My days are few,” he said. “Just how many more 
seasons I can teach the will of Khoda, no one knows. 
I am about to make a pilgrimage to Kerbela. If you 

116 


I 


THE HOLY ROAD TO KERBELA 
wish to go with me, I will make the plans and we can 
start by the new moon.” 

Omar’s eyes twinkled. He cared not for holy 
Kerbela, but the adventure of going so far from 
home and seeing so many new things fascinated him, 
and he would have done almost anything to be taken 
on the journey. 

“But how can a poor boy go to Kerbela?” he 
asked his teacher anxiously. 

“Omar,” replied his teacher reproachfully, “who 
has asked you about money? I am doing this for 
the sake of Khoda, and some good that it may do you. 
Khoda will reward me in Paradise.” 

“Who knows,” Omar thought as he looked down 
in deep contemplation, “that Khoda does not hear 
this good man?” And he asked Khoda to forgive him 
and teach him to know the truth. 

The Imam instructed his students to be ready by 
the appearance of the new moon to make the pil¬ 
grimage to the holy plains of Kerbela. 

“Now,” the Imam said to Omar as the boys de¬ 
parted from his household next morning, “this will 
be a very important journey, and it will also give you 
the opportunity to do good to your dead relatives.” 

Omar knew what the thoughts of the great teacher 
were. Had he not heard from the lips of his father 
that his own grandfather was still this side of 
Paradise for not having had his bones removed to 

117 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
Kerbela? He very thoughtfully went home to tell of 
his good fortune. He entered the gate and found his 
father at the loom. Ibrahim looked at him with great 

joy- 

“My son, my son Omar, we are glad to have you 
home once again. I have much work this summer and 
many tents are to be made.” 

“I should like to help you, Father, but by the new 
moon I am taking the holy road to Kerbela.” 

“How is that possible?” cried his father. 

“My teacher is doing it. He is taking all three of 
us on the pilgrimage.” 

“How glorious and wonderful!” shouted Ibrahim. 
“Now the bones of my father can be buried in the 
plains of Kerbela with the bones of Imam Houssein.” 

The tentmaker had talked about a pilgrimage to 
Kerbela for years, but was too poor to undertake it, 
and there were the bones of his father still buried in 
the old cemetery of Naishapur. 

“Khoda is great, Khoda is the light of heaven and 
giver of all good things!” he cried to his wife. 
“Khoda has made it possible, through our dear son, 
Omar, to receive my father into Paradise, where the 
Prophet and all the Imams have their abode.” 

Amina was all piety. She at once decided to make 
the finest basket in which to carry the bones to 
Kerbela. 

“Nay, nay,” said Ibrahim. “It is better to make 
a bag.” 


118 


THE HOLY ROAD TO KERBELA 

To that Omar agreed. “It will be easier to carry 
than a basket.” 

So Ibrahim started weaving a bag out of the same 
material of which he wove his tents. Digging out the 
bones of loved ones to be taken to the holy plains of 
Kerbela, in order for them to be received into Para¬ 
dise, was a mystery to Omar, but he willingly ac¬ 
cepted the task of helping the soul of his grandfather. 

Omar had not long to attend to his preparations 
for the pilgrimage. There were many things to be 
done. A pilgrim’s dress and shoes had to be made. 
His dress was made of the fabric of his father’s tents, 
and cloth slippers were made by his mother. Com¬ 
fortable slippers would be needed by the pilgrims 
for tramping over the plains of Kerbela, and Omar 
was lucky to have his slippers made at home by his 
own mother, for they were measured to his feet. 

One morning, while the dew was still on the ground, 
Omar betook himself to the grave of his sister. 
Bulbul had been dead now for five moons, but to 
Omar she had fallen as a rose of yesterday. He 
solemnly walked toward the cemetery, passing a little 
stream that made its way through the vineyards and 
gardens of Naishapur. Its limpid water brought 
thirst to Omar’s throat. He leaned lightly upon the 
bank, over the tender green grass, and drank deep. 
Then he rose and looked about him. Delightful 
blossoms met his eye everywhere. He avoided as 

119 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
much as he could stepping on the flowers, for who 
knew, he thought, from what once lovely form they 
sprang unseen? 

Omar walked a little distance to traverse the 
stream, until he came to a dead tree that the great 
storm of the past summer had caused to fall and thus 
make a bridge over the water channel. He balanced 
himself with a stick till he reached the other side. 
Then he turned around and looked at the dead tree. 
It bore no leaves and it would no more give fruit 
of its kind, but there was still use for it, he thought, 
since it had fallen over the water and people might 
walk on it. Had it fallen because of Khoda’s 
plan ? 

Omar came to a low mud wall that separated the 
cemetery from a garden of roses. He jumped over 
it in the name of Ali, for climbing a wall, or jumping 
over an aqueduct, or doing anything in which a mis¬ 
step might cause an accident, was to be safely ac¬ 
complished by calling on the prophet, Ali, the patron 
saint of the Persians. Omar’s feet fell on a flat stone 
that covered the body of a Naishapurian of long 
ago. He walked here and there through the ceme¬ 
tery until he came to where Bulbul was hidden be¬ 
neath the couch of earth. With tears in his eyes 
that splashed down on the flat tombstone, he placed 
a handful of roses that he gathered from the wall 
over the head of his lovely sister. Then he returned 
home, taking short and thoughtful steps as he ten- 

120 


THE HOLY ROAD TO KERBELA 
derly walked over the green herbs that were spring¬ 
ing from the earth. 

The bag was now ready and the removal of the 
grandfather’s bones from their resting place was 
about to be solemnly conducted. Early in the morn¬ 
ing Ibrahim, taking the bag, a shovel, a heavy iron 
rod and a rope, went with his son, Omar, to the grave 
of his father. 

Omar stood over the grave that held the bones of 
his grandfather, and Ibrahim, with shovel and pick, 
started to remove the flat stone. But before striking 
the ground where his father’s body was buried, he 
first called on Khoda and Ali, the Persian prophet, 
to help him in his task. Little by little the stone was 
removed. Omar and his father placed it on another 
flat stone that had covered the body of a townsmen 
only lately. Then Ibrahim took his shovel and re¬ 
moved the earth, reverently placing it on the grave¬ 
stone. He kept on digging until he came to the bones. 
Omar helped to gather the bones of his grandfather, 
and one by one they were placed in the bag. 

It was a solemn occasion for the young tentmaker, 
for it was the first time in his life that he had seen 
a human skeleton. That the flesh of his grandfather 
had turned into dust was beyond question. Even 
some of his bones seemed to be missing. The nails 
were gone, and the fingers that had made many tents 
were no more. They searched until they could find 

121 


THE YOUNG TENT MAKER 
no more bones, and, having decided that their duty 
was well done by the old tentmaker, Omar and his 
father fastened the bag with the rope of camel’s hair, 
and then both worked to cover up the empty grave, 
which in time would be filled by another leaf that 
would soon fall from the human tree. Omar wished 
to carry the bag. They were the bones of his grand¬ 
father and he was to be the custodian of them until 
they were safely deposited with the bones of Hous- 
sein and his faithful followers who had died in the 
bloody plains of Kerbela. 

Slowly father and son returned to the tentshop. 
Omar removed the bag from his aching shoulder and 
placed it reverently beside the stump of the fallen 
cherry tree that had shaded the old tentmaker in its 
prime. They were both now hungry and thirsty. 
Amina greeted them as though she were meeting 
angels. 

“Khoda be praised. Ya Ali, your duty will soon 
be accomplished. The food is ready and I have 
brought water to wash your hands and face.” 

Omar waited for his father to take the first drink, 
and when his own turn came he followed the ancient 
custom of pouring a few drops on the ground, but 
this time his eyes fell on the sack of bones, and he 
went to it and spilled a few drops upon it. Amina 
called them to a steaming dish of shorba, and, as 
they sat to their meal, they all gave thanks to 
Khoda, the light of the world, the commander of 

122 


THE HOLY ROAD TO KERBELA 

heaven and earth, may His name be praised and 
glorified. 

The new moon was now about to make its appear¬ 
ance, and the arduous journey to holy Kerbela would 
soon take place. Omar’s parents were greatly con¬ 
cerned about their son’s pilgrimage. 

“How long will you be on the road?” asked Amina 
anxiously. 

“The teacher said it will take a whole moon and 
maybe more to reach Kerbela, and half that time to 
visit the holy tombs and the great school.” 

“I did not know there was a school in Kerbela,” 
said Amina. 

“Why, to be sure,” spoke Ibrahim. “It was there 
that the Imam himself received his wisdom.” 

Amina was pleased to know that, but a whole 
month’s journey was very long to one who had never 
been out of Naishapur. “Khoda will take care of 
our son,” she said. “The spirit of Houssein will 
safely conduct him to Kerbela and bring him back 
to us.” 

Amina had baked much pastry, and had specially 
prepared a saddlebag for Omar, in which to keep 
his belongings on the journey. They had made a 
woolen blanket from the wool that Ibrahim had 
bought to make his tents. All pains were taken to 
give Omar a proper start. 

One day about sunset a servant of the Imam ap- 

123 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
peared at the tentshop to say that, according to the 
time they had set for the journey, they were to de¬ 
part in two days. 

The Imam had made all the arrangements. In ad¬ 
dition to taking his three disciples, he was taking 
his servant, Hatim, to look after the camels and 
provide for his comfort during the journey. Hatim 
was overjoyed to go, for the bones of his father had 
been waiting for many years in his grave at Nai- 
shapur, and no son was worthy of his father who 
did not, if the opportunity arose, make the journey 
to Kerbela and provide a resting place in its conse¬ 
crated fields for his parents. 

One lovely morning, such as can be seen only in 
the fields of Naishapur, the Imam, with his cavalcade, 
started to the holy city of Kerbela. Nizam and Has- 
san, being the sons of wealthy parents, had been pro¬ 
vided by them with camels and many provisions. 
Omar’s father was too poor to hire a camel for his 
son, and the Imam supplied the beast. The dignified 
teacher led the procession through the streets of Nai¬ 
shapur, riding on a white camel. He was followed by 
Nizam, his eldest disciple, then came Omar and Has- 
san. The last in the procession was Hatim, who rode 
his camel as proudly as a sultan. Only he and Omar 
had bags that contained bones of relatives, for the 
families of the Imam and his wealthy students had 
had such rites performed long ago. 

124 


THE HOLY ROAD TO KERBELA 

The cavalcade passed through the gates near the 
tentshop. Ibrahim and many poor folk were wait¬ 
ing to bid farewell and ask the blessings of Khoda 
on the pious pilgrims. Ibrahim kissed the garments 
of the Imam, and even the neck of his camel, and 
with tears streaming down his face he kissed the vel¬ 
vet cheek of his son and the bag that contained the 
bones of his father. Ibrahim was happy now. His 
father’s spirit was to be safely conducted by his own 
son to the Paradise where the great souls of all ages 
were resting. At last the Imam commanded his camel 
to lead the procession, after the beast had been kissed 
by all the pious and poor people who could not carry 
the bones of their fathers to Kerbela. Ibrahim was 
more grateful to the Imam than he could express in 
his poor language. 

“May your place never be vacant,” he said as he 
again kissed the white neck of the fortunate camel 
that was taking the Imam to faraway Kerbela. 

Even Omar was now stricken with piety. He had 
never seen people so humble in all his life. He rode 
his camel with a feeling that he was indeed on a holy 
mission, and that Khoda, the great Creator, was 
watching over him and his beast. 

Soon Naishapur disappeared from their view. 
They passed fields of wheat and rice and finally came 
to a great incline. The camels trailed along, shaking 
themselves proudly. On the summit of the pass, 
there was a caravanserai. Hatim looked at the sun 


125 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
and the shadow of his camel. It was time for rest 
and refreshment. 

“0 center of knowledge,” he said to his master, 
“it is time for every one to gain strength. Let us 
rest.” 

“If Khoda be pleased,” said the Imam. 

Hatim then stroked the knees of his camel until 
it bent its head forward and knelt on the ground. 
Hatim dismounted and approached the white camel 
and gave its knees a light touch with his whip. The 
camel obeyed at once and came down on its knees. 
“Fa Ali” said the Imam as he dismounted. Nizam 
and Omar and Hassan were soon running about, 
stretching their legs. They followed their teacher as 
he proceeded toward the caravanserai , and Hatim 
led the camels aside and tied them together to a tree. 

“We have a long road before us,” spoke the Imam. 
“This is my tenth pilgrimage and, who knows, it 
may be my last.” 

“May your place never be vacant,” said Omar, 
remembering the phrase from his father. 

“As long as I have three disciples like you,” said 
the Imam, “my place will never be vacant, for I 
know at least one of you will carry on my work after 
me.” 

They had their bread and cheese. “Khoda be 
blessed,” said the Imam as he ran his lean fingers 
over his long white beard, and the boys and Hatim 
said, “Khoda be blessed,” as they also prepared to 

126 


THE HOLY ROAD TO KERBELA 
mount their camels for another half day’s journey. 
Omar went to his beast and inspected the white bag. 
Everything was all right. Hatim helped the Imam 
to mount his camel, and now they descended toward 
the bottom of the pass. As they reached the valley, 
a party of horsemen met them. 

“Maybe they are robbers,” thought Omar, “but 
who would hold up the party of the Imam?” 

They exchanged salaams and went on their way. 
The day was now coming to an end, but no one knew 
the road better than the Imam. 

“We shall spend the night yonder,” he said as 
they were approaching the gates of a town. He 
pointed to a large building graced with shining tiles 
and tall minarets. It was a madrassa , and no one, 
not even the king, had more right to stop for rest at 
a place of learning than the Imam. 

Hatim again made himself useful by attending 
to the needs of his master. He unloaded the camels 
and took the precious sacks of bones and placed them 
in a dark corner of the courtyard. They ate their 
supper and soon every one was asleep, for the first 
day’s journey is always very tiresome. 

In the morning their party grew, for they were 
met by other pilgrims who had felt the desire to go 
to Kerbela to observe Muharram. Almost every day 
the small band of pilgrims was met by others, and 
before they had traveled many days a caravan of a 
hundred camels was stringing along to the holy 

127 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
plains of Kerbela. In every hamlet and city they 
were met by the devout inhabitants, who paid them 
homage and respect and in return were blessed by the 
Imam and promised prayers for their dead relatives. 

The cavalcade of a hundred camels kept moving 
day by day toward the holy city of Kerbela. At the 
carvanserais , where they stopped for rest, Omar saw 
that his grandfather’s bones were close by him. 
Had he lost the precious load it would have been a 
calamity hard to explain to his father, Ibrahim. 
Many of the pilgrims were carrying sacks of bones, 
and every one was careful not to lose or exchange his 
load of bones for another’s. 

Days passed and now they were near the great 
desert. It was thought that in crossing the desert 
all kinds of dangers might befall the traveler. The 
country roundabout was infested with sand flies 
and scorpions and vampires. The first night they 
camped in the desert, Omar heard the story of the 
vampires. They were creatures that Khoda had 
made with the bodies and feet of men and the heads 
of birds. At night they would come and prick the 
feet of the travelers with their beaks and suck their 
blood. Omar was not inclined to believe that such a 
tale was true, but nevertheless there might be such 
creatures as vampires in the desert. 

In the middle of the night, Omar was awakened 
by a sting under his foot. He opened his eyes 

128 


THE HOLY ROAD TO KERBELA 
quickly. The moon was shining as brightly as the 
early morning sun. He looked about but nothing 
could he see. The pain of the sting became greater 
and greater. “0 Khoda,” he cried, “what can it be?” 
He shook Nizam who was sleeping near him. 

“Nizam,” he cried, “I am bitten by something, 
maybe by a vampire!” 

Nizam came to his senses and fear seized him. 
The vampires might soon have him. Very quickly 
the whole camp came to life, and by the light of the 
moon an examination was made of Omar’s foot, 
which was now swelling. The Imam put on his robe 
and came to his student’s rescue. 

“It is no vampire, so be not afraid. You are bit¬ 
ten by a scorpion.” 

Then he opened his medicine bag. With a small 
knife he bled the wound and bathed it with scorpion 
oil, and commanded the others to find the scorpion 
that had bitten Omar. 

“I have found it!” cried Nizam, shaking out 
Omar’s blanket. 

“Then give it to me.” The Imam bruised its head 
and placed it on the wound. “It is finished,” he said, 
“and there will be no more danger.” 

Next morning they were all ready for another 
day’s journey. Omar was feeling better. 

“Go this way,” said the Imam to his camel, “to 
avoid the depth of the desert,” and they all followed. 

One man died in the desert. Omar felt sorry. 

129 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 

“But,” cried one of the pious ones, “his death will 
be a blessing to his family and they will be benefited 
by it ever after, for to die on the road to Kerbela is 
double piety.” 

They soon emerged from the desert and made 
straight ahead for Kerbela. But they had brought 
with them in the folds of their blankets and the hair 
of their camels some of the sand flies. They were all 
warm and tired and restless. But Omar heard one 
brave voice from the tail of the caravan. 

“If you would sleep sweetly go to Kerbela,” sang 
a weary traveler to the rhythm of the camel bells. 
“There is where you will find rest.” 

A sand fly was pricking Omar continually, and 
his body was soon covered with festers. He heard 
again the voice from the rear of the caravan. 

“If you would sleep sweetly go to Kerbela. There 
is where you will find rest.” 

“May Khoda hear your song,” said Omar, “and 
soon bring us to Kerbela.” 



CHAPTER X 

THE PROPHET'S PARADISE 

After many days the city of Kerbela became 
visible in the distance. The blue tile domes of the 
mosques and the famous madrassa sparkled in the 
sunlight of midafternoon. 

“By sundown,” said the Imam, “we shall be rest¬ 
ing at the great madrassa, where I was a student 
many years ago.” 

Just without the gate of the city the great caravan 
stopped. Before them was an immense wall that 
circled a large tract of land. This was the great cem¬ 
etery which contained bones from all over Persia, 
Arabia and Afghanistan. Here the Imam bade 

131 












THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
Hatim carry in his precious sack of bones and dig 
a grave for them near the wall. 

“Khoda knows,” said Hatim, “I have done my 
part with my father’s bones. This is the battlefield 
where Houssein and his followers were slain. The 
ground is consecrated.” And thus, in the name of 
Houssein, he buried his father’s bones. 

“0 master,” Omar asked the Imam, “what am I to 
do with the bones of my grandfather? Is this not the 
place for them?” 

“There is a special place to deposit the bones of 
your grandfather. They shall be as near as possible 
to where the bones of my own people are resting, in 
a cemetery near one of the great mosques. Such 
burial places are especially designated for those 
known for their piety.” 

When Omar heard this he was doubly grateful. 
How proud, he thought, his father would be when he 
was told that the old tentmaker’s bones had been 
placed near the bones of the Imam’s father! 

The sun was descending quietly behind the holy 
mosque of Houssein as the Imam and his party 
passed proudly through the gate of Kerbela. The 
pilgrims went into different parts of the city, find¬ 
ing caravanserais to stay in during their sojourn, 
and those who were unable to pay the price of a 
caravanserai, or could not be accommodated, slept in 
tents outside the city. But the Imam had already 

132 


THE PROPHETS PARADISE 
planned where he and his disciples were to stay. He 
led the way through the bazaars, every one paying 
him respect as he passed. The shopkeepers bowed 
before the green-turbaned scholar as he rode by with 
his disciples. They passed several caravanserais, 
but the Imam rode on. At last they came to a great 
building. 

“This is the madrassa where I studied when I was 
a boy. There is always a room ready for me. You 
shall not be far from me. The boys’ quarters are 
now empty, except for those who live far or wish to 
stay for Muharram.” 

The Imam rode through the gate with his small 
band of pilgrims. Immediately the caretaker, who 
had met the Imam on every one of his visits and had 
supplied his wants, took the camels, removed their 
burdens and led them under a large mulberry tree. 
The white camel came to his knees first, then the 
other camels knelt down and stretched their weary 
necks on the ground. 

The Imam’s arrival had been announced and the 
head of the madrassa came to welcome him to the 
abode of learning. They were old friends, for they 
had gone to school together as boys. The learned 
man of Kerbela looked with interest upon the three 
boys. 

“Are these your grandsons?” he asked. 

“No, they are my three students from whom I ex¬ 
pect much.” 


133 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 

Omar was looking straight at the mustahed, who 
smiled into his eyes. 

“This boy is a dreamer. I can tell it from his 
eyes. Does he know the Koran well?” 

“He does,” said his teacher, “but he excels in 
mathematics. It is this boy,” turning to Nizam, 
“who not only knows but understands the word of 
Khoda. And this one is Hassan. His handwriting 
is perfect. In the name of Khoda, he may some day 
be secretary to the Shah, for only the greatest 
caligraphers can fill that office.” 

The Imam, with his saddlebags, was taken to his 
room, and Omar and his friends shared the room of 
a student who had gone to his home in Kashan. 
Night came quickly, and the weary travelers lost no 
time in going soundly to sleep, in spite of the sand 
fly bites from which they were still suffering. But 
in the morning the discomfort of itching skin, which 
had been almost forgotten in extreme weariness, was 
felt more than ever. 

“How can I ease myself?” Omar said to Nizam 
as he dressed. 

“These sand fly bites began to smart as soon as 
my eyes were open,” responded Nizam. 

Hassan was very sullen. He did not communicate 
his thoughts to his fellow students. 

“Why are you not saying something?” said 
Omar. “I am itching all over.” 

“I venture to say that the Imam is suffering'more 

134 


THE PROPHETS PARADISE 
than we are,” said Nizam. “No doubt his beard is 
full of sand flies. Khob, to-day everybody will go to 
the bathhouse. The only cure for sand flies is a good 
hot bath.” 

Soon after their early breakfast, the Imam, who 
was in need of a hot bath as much as his students 
were, took them to an imposing building in the center 
of the city of Kerbela. Thousands of pilgrims, 
weary from their long journey, were seeking rest 
and relaxation in the hamams of Kerbela. The great 
hamam of Akbar Ali, with its high white marble 
dome and tiled pool rooms and many cells for dress¬ 
ing and undressing, was the center of social gather¬ 
ings and exchange of experiences of the road. When 
the Imam walked in, with his long flowing robes and 
green turban, every one stepped aside, for all knew 
that he was not only a holy man but had come from 
the seed of Mohammed. 

“O center of knowledge,” cried the hamam keeper, 
“when did you arrive? I have not seen your soul 
for many moons.” And very graciously the Imam 
gave him his blessing, while, with twinkling brown 
eyes, he expressed his gladness that he was again in 
Kerbela. 

“Now these three boys shall have a cell for them¬ 
selves,” said the hamam keeper. “They are not so 
big that they can not get along together. Are they 
your sons?” 


135 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 

“No,” explained the Imam, “they are my stu¬ 
dents.” 

“They are fortunate to study in the shadow of 
your great learning, and they will acquire much 
honor, coming to Kerbela so young.” 

The teacher and his students parted, going to 
their own cells and little pools of water. Omar was 
first to undress and he walked carefully over the 
slippery floor to the pool and descended into it. 
What a glorious feeling he experienced. It was the 
first hamam he had been in. Before that he had taken 
his baths in the streams or in his father’s courtyard 
in summer, and in winter in the stable or in the 
house. 

The good bath refreshed them wonderfully. The 
Imam was the first to finish. He came out dressed 
in new garments, with his beard combed and dyed 
with henna. He indeed looked like a holy prophet, 
ready to enter into Paradise. After a while, Omar 
and his friends had had enough. They put on 
fresh clothing and trailed their teacher with an 
air of importance until they reached the ma- 
drassa. 

Now they were ready for the great excitement 
that was to follow during the next ten days. They 
had reached Kerbela just two days before the begin¬ 
ning of Muharram. There were thousands of pil¬ 
grims in Kerbela and its surrounding neighborhood, 

136 


THE PROPHET'S PARADISE 
and the streets and mosques were thronged with 
pious Mohammedans from all Iran, and even Af¬ 
ghanistan and India. 

“Why are all these people here?” said Omar to 
his teacher. “Have they all come to bring the bones 
of their fathers to be buried in the battlefield of 
Houssein?” 

“Many come to perform that duty to their par¬ 
ents. Others come in penitence.” 

The next morning was the first day of Muharram, 
beginning of great anguish, not only to the pilgrims 
at Kerbela but to all pious Mohammedans of Iran. 
From the first day of Muharram until the tenth, 
when he was killed with his faithful followers, Hous¬ 
sein had been hunted down and besieged on the plains 
of Kerbela, surrounded by his enemies and tortured 
by thirst. The events of each day were enacted in a 
passion play, culminating in the tragedy of the 
martyrdom on the last day. 

Omar walked out with his friends into the streets. 
There were tents pitched here and there, covered 
with black cloth and other objects of mourning. The 
mosques could not accommodate all the people and 
some of the great meetings would be held in the parks 
under the shade of trees, or in the tents, erected at 
the expense of rich men to gain favor of Houssein 
and hope of Paradise. 

On this first day of Muharram, crowds of pil¬ 
grims mingled with the inhabitants of Kerbela and 

137 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
gathered in the streets to begin the celebration. 
Some one shouted, “Hassen, Houssein, Ya Ali!” 
And the whole crowd took up the cry. Soon every 
one with loud cries in unison implored Khoda to pun¬ 
ish the killers of Houssein and his small army of 
sixty followers. 

Omar followed the Imam and his companions as 
the procession marched to a mosque near by. The 
leader of the band had unbuttoned his shirt and his 
breast was bare to the waist. He began beating his 
breast with his fists. Soon a company of fifty or 
more had their shirts torn open and, in the name of 
Houssein, were beating and pounding their breasts 
at each step. As they neared the mosque, the name 
of Houssein resounded in the clear air of Kerbela 
and the beating of breasts became more violent. 
Every breast was now red and bruised. Very seri¬ 
ously Omar viewed the frenzied mourners. 

“Why are they doing all this?” he thought to 
himself, but was unable to answer the question. 
Then he turned to Nizam. “Why are they doing all 
this?” 

“It will take them closer to Paradise,” said 
Nizam. 

“What is this Paradise?” wondered Omar further. 

“Have you not heard that there is a tent for every 
pious believer in Paradise, made of pearls, rubies and 
emeralds ?” 

“In the name of Khoda, who makes these tents?” 
cried Omar. 


138 


THE PROPHETS PARADISE 

“Everything is possible in the hand of Khoda,” 
answered Nizam seriously. 

Hundreds of companies paraded the streets of 
Kerbela, shouting the name of Houssein and cursing 
those that had taken part in the killing of Ah’s son. 
The rich and learned refrained from injuring them¬ 
selves. They stood by, looking pious and crestfallen, 
but beyond that they did nothing. They spent 
money in erecting tents in the streets where pious 
people might assemble and mourn. By doing that 
they thought they might obtain their passport to 
Paradise. 

Omar was viewing the whole proceeding with 
eager eyes. He had witnessed year after year the 
celebration in his own town, but nothing like this had 
he ever seen before. His father, Ibrahim, though a 
devout follower of Mohammed, had never taken part, 
except by going to the mosque and listening to the 
words of a mullah. Ibrahim had, of course, grieved 
that Houssein had been tortured, but he had never 
wounded himself for his sake. 

The crowds gained momentum as they marched. 
Now bands of small boys came, following their lead¬ 
ers and beating their breasts with their fists, shouting 
the glories of Houssein and cursing the names of his 
enemies. They came and stood in front of a mosque. 
A mullah with a huge white turban came out and 
praised them for the good work they were doing for 
the cause of Houssein. The leader, at hearing the 
holy name mentioned, became more exhilarated and 

139 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
began again crying the name of Houssein and was 
followed in unison by other small boys. Omar viewed 
them with a doubtful expression. He again turned 
to his companions. 

“Why are they doing this?” 

“They also want to enter Paradise,” answered 
Nizam. 

“What do they know about Paradise?” 

“I do not know,” said Hassan, “but in time I ven¬ 
ture to say they will make good Mohammedans.” 

“Why do you not join them?” asked Omar. “This 
is the easiest way I know to reach heaven.” 

“ Khob , why do not you?” interrupted Hassan. 

“I know nothing about Paradise. Has any one 
come to tell us about it?” 

“No, yet there may be such a place.” 

Nizam turned to Omar and Hassan with a dis¬ 
turbed expression. 

“How should you boys say whether there is a 
Paradise or not? It is good to believe,” he said. 

Just at that time the Imam came out of the 
mosque with tears in his eyes. The morning pageant 
was over. The participants in the great tragedy were 
comforted by their families and friends and were 
given extra food that day. They were martyrs to 
the cause and they wanted everybody to know it. 

Omar rose early on the second day of Muharram. 
His teacher was now more sorrowful than the day 

140 


THE PROPHETS PARADISE 
before, because the day of the killing of Houssein 
was approaching. In the morning the bands again 
gathered in the streets and marched back and forth 
through the bazaars and business places. Shop¬ 
keepers left their booths unguarded to view the pass¬ 
ing processions, for these ten days no one would 
think of stealing or doing harm to his fellow man. 
The second day the excitement became higher than 
the day before. The bands became larger and more 
vociferous. Omar still watched, but Nizam joined a 
band of young men who were being led by a student 
at the madrassa . He did not tear his shirt. He 
solemnly walked along. Hassan also joined him, and 
after a while Omar stepped out and took his place be¬ 
tween his schoolmates. 

“It is no trouble to walk with these people, and 
this may do me good if there is a Paradise, and if 
there is not it can not do me harm.” 

Omar followed the procession into the mosque and 
knelt down in the mighty gathering. A sermon was 
preached and the names of Ali and his sons, Hassan 
and Houssein, were praised. 

“Paradise, the Prophet’s Paradise, is within your 
reach, 0 believers, these few days. Khoda will repay 
you for every tear that you shed.” 

There was much weeping done on that day and the 
days that followed by stouthearted men who never 
knew what crying was except during the days of 
Muharram. 


141 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 

Every day the great crowds increased in strength 
and zealousness. Toward the end, the excitement 
was so high that the participants knew not what 
they were doing. On the last day they were in frenzy, 
and Houssein’s death was to them actually happen¬ 
ing on that very day. The heat was almost unbear¬ 
able, but the play went on, and actors and spectators 
forgot their discomfort in weeping over the fate of 
the hero, Houssein. 

Omar and his friends wept with those around 
them, for it was a story to move the hardest heart, 
and to see it before their eyes was to share in the 
fate of the brave but doomed Houssein. Near the 
end, when the Prophet himself appeared for a mo¬ 
ment to sustain the despairing spirit of his grandson 
and give him courage for the final trial of his mar¬ 
tyrdom, the boys were thrilled with the voice that 
spoke. Their teacher had been given the great 
honor of taking the part of the Prophet. His sweet 
voice captivated the hearts of all. Tears began 
flowing now as never before. Mullahs passed among 
the weeping believers with cotton in their hands, 
gathering the tears of anguish and hope and squeez¬ 
ing them into pitchers. Omar stood motionless. He 
had never heard his teacher so eloquent. 

The play was at an end. The martyrdom was 
over, and Houssein had gained the Prophet’s Para¬ 
dise. The Imam was concluding the great ceremony 
this time. When he had finished, many crowded to 

142 


THE PROPHETS PARADISE 
kiss the robe of the holy man and to ask for some of 
the precious tears. Little flasks were given to all 
who asked. 

“What are these tears for?” asked Omar of his 
companions, “and of what benefit are they?” 

Nizam knew. “They can cure the sick man if he 
is about to die, and, should he pass from this life, 
if his hands and feet are bathed in tears that flowed 
from the mourners at Kerbela, the Prophet will 
receive him at once into Paradise.” 

Omar said nothing. Muharram was now over, but 
he was still wondering about the Prophet’s Paradise. 



CHAPTER XI 

THE FIELD OF NIGHT 

The thousands of pilgrims were now leaving 
Kerbela. By this time Omar had acquired a new 
title. He could ever after be known as Kerba Omar, 
signifying that he had made the pilgrimage to 
Kerbela. All three boys were pleased with this new 
distinction, for not many of their age could boast the 
title, but the proudest of all was Hatim, who was 
already beginning to put on airs, as he thought how 
he would lord it over the other servants in the Imam’s 
household when they returned to Naishapur. 

Hatim had made ready the camels, had fed them 

144 




THE FIELD OF NIGHT 
and given them water. In the cool of the morning, 
while the sun was still behind the Kerbela hills, the 
Imam, his students and Kerba Hatim, left the plains 
of the holy land for the hills and meadows of Nai- 
shapur. Overhead the stars still shone, and they 
directed their course toward a large and radiant 
star that hung like a beacon light in the east. The 
measured sound of many camel bells, some faint 
in the distance, echoed through the air, lending 
a somber and lonely aspect to the long journey 
ahead. 

Omar was already anxious to be at home. How 
proud he thought his father would be and his mother, 
too, that he had been to Kerbela so young! He was 
impatient to greet them, and when he thought that 
he must travel many days his spirit left him. Then 
there were the sand flies. He hoped Khoda would 
spare him from their invasion. At times he was per¬ 
plexed as to why Khoda did not take a hand in the 
affairs of the devout pilgrims. He remembered the 
good man, on the journey toward Kerbela, who had 
fainted and fallen from his camel and soon after was 
lifeless on the road. Omar was beginning to fear for 
his own life. The hazards connected with making 
the pilgrimage seemed too great. 

“What are you thinking about?” Nizam asked 
Omar, seeing his serious face. 

“I am thinking about that poor man who fell 
from his camel and died on the road. Much can 


145 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
happen within a moon. Suppose you or I should 
become ill and die.” 

“A/iob,” answered Nizam, “if we do, it will be the 
will of Khoda.” 

Nizam was not troubling his mind about what 
might happen, and Omar banished his own gloomy 
thoughts as the sun peeped over the edge of the dis¬ 
tant horizon. He soon forgot about the dead pil¬ 
grim, and watched the lord of the heavens mount his 
throne in all his glory, while the stars hid their faces. 
Even the bright star in the east that had outshone 
all the stars of the sky had disappeared. 

On the road they were joined by other travelers 
headed toward the east, and the long procession of 
solemn-faced devotees wound across the plain, with 
the white camel of the Imam leading the caravan. 
At night they stopped at a caravanserai , and early 
in the morning, while it was cool, they loaded up 
again, as they did every day till they reached the 
desert land. When they came to the edge of the 
desert, Omar’s heart sank within him. Oh, the sand 
flies, oh, the sand flies! He already began scratching 
himself, imagining them biting and boring them¬ 
selves into his skin. 

The travelers became tired and haggard on the 
road before they reached a desert well where they 
could dismount and refresh themselves and their 
camels. They stopped beside the well, longing for 
the cold water. But evidently some careless traveler 

146 


THE FIELD OF NIGHT 
had failed to weight down the rope with a big enough 
rock and it must have fallen into the well after the 
wooden bucket. 

“Curses on his grave!” spoke Hatim. 

“May Khoda burn the bones of his father!” said 
Hassam. 

“There is nothing to be done except that one of 
you boys descend into the well and fetch up the 
rope.” 

Omar was first to volunteer. 

“I will go down,” said Hatim. 

“So will I,” spoke Nizam. 

“Only one can go. Omar spoke first and let him be 
the one.” 

Omar took off his sandals and descended into the 
well, carefully feeling with his bare toes for the 
niches left at intervals in the stone wall. He reached 
the bottom and looked up. There were Nizam and 
Hassan standing at the brim of the well. They 
looked like dim shadows, but beyond them, high in 
the sky, stars shone as though at midnight. Omar 
gave a gasp. 

“The sun must have gone for the night,” he said, 
and yet he knew that could not be possible, for the 
day was not yet over. Omar felt for the bucket and 
grasped the wooden handle, with the rope knotted 
round it. He pulled out the rope to its full length 
and tied the free end tightly about his body. Then 
he gradually climbed out of the well. As he was ap- 

147 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
proaching the brim, the stars disappeared and the 
sun was once again shining in all its glory. 

“The stars are still in the sky,” said Omar as he 
looked up. “I thought they disappeared to get out 
of the way of the sun, but I saw them while I was in 
the well.” 

Hassan doubted his word. 

“Khoda knows I am telling the truth. If you do 
not believe me, go down and find out for yourself.” 

Hassan had his sandals off at once, but was 
obliged to wait until the bucket had been drawn 
up several times to quench the thirst of the travelers 
and the camels. Then, while Hatim covered the end 
of the rope with a stone so large that it had to be 
rolled to the spot, Hassan ventured into the well. 

Soon he came up, as excited as Omar. “I have 
seen the stars in the sky as I have seen them in the 
field of night!” 

Then Nizam descended in his turn. The Imam 
had said nothing of Omar’s discovery. He merely 
stroked his beard and smiled. 

“Then the stars do not run away from the sun?” 
asked Omar of his teacher. 

“Where would they go?” responded the Imam. 
“They are always there, making the circle of their 
courses.” 

“How can one learn about these stars that seem so 
far away?” asked Omar. 

“It is a great study, my boy, and has fascinated 

148 


THE FIELD OF NIGHT 
the minds of wise men from the earliest times, for in 
observing the movements of these wonders of Khoda’s 
creation they have sought to understand the ways 
and purposes of Khoda. In my youth I was a student 
with the great Abul Wafa of Baghdad. He was 
then studying the variations of the moon, and making 
the remarkable discoveries that brought him fame.” 

Omar’s eyes opened wide with interest. “What is 
the variation of the moon?” he asked eagerly. 

“The speed of the moon’s motion is not always 
the same,” explained the Imam, “and Abul Wafa 
discovered the cause of this in the variation of the 
sun’s force upon the moon.” 

“Will you teach me, master?” asked Omar. “Is it 
as easy to learn as mathematics?” 

“The two are bound up together,” answered the 
wise man. “The sun and the stars rise and set by 
mathematical laws, and the moon waxes and wanes 
with regularity.” 

“That is what I want to know,” cried Omar, “why 
the sun rises and sets, why the moon waxes and 
wanes, what holds the stars in the sky!” 

The Imam shook his head smilingly. “I can not 
teach you all you ask. I am too old to learn any 
more about the science of the stars, but the mystery 
may unfold part of itself to you; who knows? When 
we reach the desert caravanserai to-night I will show 
you the map of the heavens. The desert is the place 
to study the stars.” 


149 


THE YOUNG TENT MAKER 

By this time, the Imam and his little party had 
quenched their thirst and eaten bread and cheese 
and Persian pastry. Then they proceeded on their 
journey. The white camel, with its proud head 
turned toward home, led the way slowly and digni- 
fiedly. Its flat feet kept it from sinking into the 
sand. When the sun was descending toward the 
west in a brilliant red sky they arrived at the desert 
caravanserai. Hatim unpacked the beasts of burden, 
and Omar and the other boys began looking about 
the sandy courtyard. There were many stalls, each 
accommodating several pious men that had made the 
pilgrimage to Kerbela. Soon the innkeeper had 
slaughtered a sheep and was preparing the meat for 
the hungry men. 

As soon as the meal was finished, Omar eagerly 
reminded the Imam of his promise to show them the 
stars, and the teacher found a quiet corner of the 
courtyard. The Imam looked toward a spot high in 
the southwestern sky. The rosy sunset clouds were 
still faintly pink against the paling blue. 

“Keep watch,” said the Imam, “for soon Arcturus 
will shine out. It is the brightest star in the summer 
sky and appears first after the sun is gone.” 

“Do all the stars have names?” inquired Hassan. 

“Only the brightest ones,” said the Imam, “and 
most of them were known long ago and named by the 
Arabs.” 

Omar had been keeping his eyes on the bit of sky 

150 


THE FIELD OF NIGHT 
which the Imam had pointed out, and now he cried, 
“I see it! The star has appeared!” 

Against the pale blue, streaked with gauzy clouds 
of fading pink, a bright yellow point gleamed. 

“That is Arcturus, the shepherd of the stars,” 
said the Imam, “for he leads out the host of the stars 
in summer as a shepherd leads his flock.” 

The light of the vanished sun gradually faded 
from the vault of the heavens, and here and there 
other little lights twinkled out. Soon the stars were 
as thick above them as spring blossoms in the 
meadows of Naishapur. The Imam directed their 
gaze from bright Arcturus to the great constellation 
of the northern sky. He showed them the four stars 
that roughly outlined a rectangle, with three stars 
extending in a slight curve from the higher left- 
hand point. 

“This figure has from ancient times been called 
the Chariot; the four stars making the rectangle are 
the wheels and the three others are the horses. Look 
just above the middle one of the three horses. Can 
you see a small star?” 

Omar’s eagle eyes descried the tiny point of light. 
Nizam also found it, and after a moment’s straining 
gaze Hassan, too, declared that he could see it. 

“That is Alcor, the driver of the chariot,” said 
the Imam. “I can no longer see it, and that is proof 
that my sight is failing, for the Arabs called it also 
Saidak, the Tester. Only a good eye can see it. The 

151 


THE YOUNG TENT MAKER 
Chariot is part of a larger constellation called Dubhe, 
the Bear, because it dwells like that animal in the 
north. Do you see near the Chariot, but reversed, a 
similar figure of seven stars? That is the Little Bear. 
The earliest travelers and seafarers guided them¬ 
selves by these two constellations, and told the hours 
of the night by their position, for they revolve 
slowly, describing a circle in the sky in the time the 
sun completes his round.” 

Hatim had dozed off now and then during the star 
lesson. He finally shook himself and rose to seek his 
bed by the camels, for to him the night was given by 
Khoda for sleep and not for gazing at the stars. But 
a moving flash across the sky caught his attention. 

“Behold!” he shouted. “Did you see it, master?” 

“What makes you speak?” 

“A star just fell from heaven.” 

“What makes a star fall?” asked Omar. 

“Only Khoda knows,” answered the Imam, “for 
it is by His will. Have you not heard how Khoda 
showed to the Prophet Mohammed the man who 
should marry his daughter? It was revealed that a 
star would fall over the house of the chosen one, 
and the star fell over the house of Ali, who became 
the husband of Fatima and the father of the martyrs, 
Hassan and Houssein.” 

Another shooting star trailed flashing from the 
heavens, and a few moments later another, and by 
this time every one was aware of the heavenly dis- 

152 


THE FIELD OF NIGHT 
play. Several other travelers joined the little group 
and the Imam became the center of attention in the 
courtyard of the caravanserai . His robes of honor 
that he wore with dignity made him respected by 
all, and his wisdom held their ears. 

Omar was looking for the patches of light like 
faint clouds winding among the stars. Many a time 
from his father’s housetop in summer he had watched 
the River of Heaven and wondered about it. 

“What are those?” he now asked the Imam. “They 
look like clouds, but they do not move.” 

“That is the Thieves’ Road,” spoke a traveler 
from Azerbaijan. “Thieves once stole a great quan¬ 
tity of wheat from some poor farmers, but while 
they were making their escape Khoda struck them 
down and spread their stolen wheat over the heavens 
as a warning to all men.” 

“That is only a story,” suggested a neighbor. 

“I am your sacrifice, but could it not be true? 
It is what every one believes in my country.” 

Now another traveler ventured an opinion. “It is 
a sign of safety for lost travelers. Many years ago, 
when the road to Kerbela was not well known, Khoda 
created this path of light in the heavens to guide lost 
pilgrims to their destination.” 

Omar, at hearing this explanation, looked at his 
teacher wonderingly. Had Khoda purposely cre¬ 
ated the path of light for travelers to Kerbela? 

“Khoda created it, that is true,” said the Imam, 

153 


THE YOUNG TENT MAKER 
“but for what purpose we know not. It was observed 
in the sky long before Houssein fought at Kerbela, 
but all the heavenly lights are signs to travelers by 
land and sea.” 

“Yes,” said a weary Arabian traveler. “He who 
knows the stars is never lost, though he wander to 
the end of the world. I have been to India and China 
and back again by the stars.” 

It was time to seek rest as Hatim had already 
done. One by one the travelers sought their beds. 
Omar lay on his back, sleepless for a time, looking at 
the stars. Bright Arcturus had passed overhead in 
its course down the western sky. The Chariot had 
swung downward and to the east, moving on its cease¬ 
less round, from which it never rested. Unlike men, 
the stars never wearied. At last, drowsy with much 
wondering, Omar’s eyes closed, shutting out the 
starry field of night, but the mystery remained in his 
sleep. 



CHAPTER XII 
KERBA OMAR 

There was now great cause for rejoicing in the 
tentshop of Ibrahim. A courier had just arrived at 
the northern gate of Naishapur and had informed 
the gatekeeper of the approach of the pilgrims from 
Kerbela. The news spread quickly, and a crowd 
began to gather by the gate, for it was an occasion 
of much piety to welcome returning pilgrims from 
holy Kerbela. The word soon reached Ibrahim, who 
at once ran to his wife and embraced her affection¬ 
ately. 

“Khoda be praised, Khoda be praised, Omar will 

155 



THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
be here soon! The gatekeeper has received the news. 
I shall go to meet him. Put on your chadar and 
follow me.” 

Very excitedly Ibrahim left the house, not know¬ 
ing just how long he would have to wait outside the 
gate to greet his son, who would now be called Kerba 
Omar. Amina covered herself with her blue chadar 
and with nervous steps walked forth to meet the pil¬ 
grims. Ibrahim was soon at the gate, and his joy and 
excitement were so great that he even embraced the 
gatekeeper. 

“I am your sacrifice, is the news true that the 
Imam and his party, with my son, Omar, will soon 
arrive from Kerbela?” 

“The courier from Kashan just informed me that 
he had passed the Imam on the way and within a 
short time they will all be here.” 

Ibrahim and his wife waited at the gate, looking 
toward the road from Kerbela. The day was clear, 
and the tentmaker thought in his joy that the sky 
was the bluest he had ever seen. Amina touched her 
husband gently on the arm. 

“In the name of Khoda, I hear the camel bells,” 
she whispered. 

Ibrahim placed both of his hands behind his ears 
and listened. 

“I hear nothing,” he said. 

“Let us go toward them and soon you will hear the 
bells. Can you not hear them now? Listen, listen!” 

156 


KERBA OMAR 

Ibrahim again placed his hands behind his ears, but 
still shook his head and said, “I hear nothing.” 

Ibrahim and Amina were soon surrounded by other 
pious folk, eager to hear the news from the travelers 
and gain the blessing of the Prophet by touching 
the feet that had trod the sacred ground of Kerbela. 
Everybody was now saying, “I hear the camel bells.” 
And Ibrahim placed his hands behind his ears. This 
time he heard the faint tinkle, and also saw the dis¬ 
tant camels looming on the horizon. 

“They are coming, they are coming!” he shouted. 
“I see the white camel of the Imam!” 

The crowd pushed forward eagerly. The more 
devout ones gathered dust from the road and smeared 
their heads with it. As they walked, the dust fell 
down their necks and streaked their faces, but it was 
a pious act thus to show humility before the holy 
men coming from the shrine of Imam Houssein. 
Ibrahim’s heart swelled within him, for part of this 
welcome was for the young tentmaker himself. 

“Khoda be praised! All honor be to Khoda, I see 
Omar!” cried Ibrahim, for his eyesight was better 
than his hearing. “There he is behind the Imam!” 

Little by little the pilgrims approached toward the 
crowd that was now increasing in numbers. The 
pious folk of Naishapur walked forward shouting, 
and met the pilgrims by the wall of an almond or¬ 
chard a short distance without the city. Ibrahim ran 
first to the Imam and kissed the neck of the white 


157 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
camel. Then he stretched up his arms to embrace 
his son. Omar leaned forward and his father kissed 
him on both his cheeks. Then his mother showered 
him with kisses. The whole crowd now surrounded 
the little party, and the white camel of the Imam 
proudly submitted to all the adoration and kisses of 
the pious folk. 

Slowly, in the midst of the crowd, the pilgrims 
from Kerbela moved on toward the gate of Nai- 
shapur, where another crowd was awaiting them, to 
make their salutations of respect and ask the bless¬ 
ing of the Imam. The cavalcade passed by the tent- 
shop. Hatim commanded the camels to stop, and 
Omar descended to enter his own home. 

“Now, my son, tell me all that your eyes have 
seen,” said Amina, as she put a fine dish of shorba 
before Omar. 

“I have seen many things, Mother, but first I 
must tell about my grandfather’s bones. They were 
placed in consecrated ground within the courtyard 
of the same mosque where the bones of the Imam’s 
father are buried.” 

“Khoda be praised,” said Ibrahim as he heard this 
wonderful news from the lips of his son. “Now my 
father will ever be happy in Paradise. Who knows, 
he may even this moment be in the company of the 
Imams!” 

“The journey was very wearisome,” said Omar 
when the meal was over. “I now need a good bath.” 


158 


KERBA OMAR 

“You shall have anything that you want,” said 
Ibrahim. “I have already placed the big kettle on 
the fire.” 

Omar undressed and stood in a wooden tub, pour¬ 
ing the warm water over his shoulders and rubbing 
his body with a sandstone. Soon he emerged from 
his bath, clean and refreshed, and dressed in the new 
garments which his mother had made in his ab¬ 
sence. 

“Now your future is assured,” said his proud 
father, “for very few can attain the title of Kerba 
at your age.” 

Omar could hardly have realized the importance 
of his pilgrimage until he had returned home, for as 
soon as he was in his father’s house again the neigh¬ 
bors and friends of Ibrahim and Amina besieged 
their courtyard, demanding to have a glimpse of 
Omar. A poor woman whose son was ill of fever was 
the first one to arrive in the courtyard. 

Amina greeted her kindly. “What is the state of 
your son? Has the fever left him?” 

“No,” answered the woman sadly. “He is thinner 
and thinner each day, and unless help comes he will 
soon see Khoda. Has Kerba Omar brought any tears 
from Kerbela? If I could only wash my boy’s face 
with the holy tears of Muharram, he might recover.” 

“Omar has brought some tears. Just wait while I 
ask him.” 

Omar was lying on his back, with his hands under 

159 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
his head, looking up at the square of bright blue sky 
framed by the skylight. He was remembering the 
well in the desert and the stars shining in the noon¬ 
day sky. The stars must still be there, invisible to 
him now, revolving in their courses; and he was lost 
in the wonder of this mystery. 

“Omar, Omar, my son Omar!” Amina had to re¬ 
peat the name of her son three times before she 
could break his thoughts. 

“What is it, Mother?” 

“The widow Yasmin is here. Her son is dying. No 
one has been able to help him, but she believes you 
may help him.” 

“I am no physician,” said Omar in surprise. “It 
is best for her to seek the help of the hakim . 

“He has tried to help the boy, but seems to do no 
good,” said Amina. “But there is always hope in a 
mother’s heart. She has come to beg some of the 
holy tears you brought from Kerbela.” 

“If she believes that the tears will help her son, 
she may have them,” said Omar soberly, thinking to 
himself that if Khoda had willed the death of the 
widow’s son no tears could help him. “Give her the 
tears, Mother, and may Khoda help her and her 
son.” 

“Not all, just enough to wash his face, for we 
can not spare all the holy tears.” 

But Omar did not hear. He was lost again in his 
own thoughts. “No one can change the will of 

160 


KERBA OMAR 

Khoda, and no one is born and no one dies before 
the time known to Khoda.” 

Amina took the phial of tears that Omar had 
brought from Kerbela. She was now thinking of 
her own father who had become quite feeble and 
tottered about in his garden, stooped and shaking. 

“I can not give the woman all these tears. I must 
keep some for my father. They will prolong his life.” 

She poured some of the precious tears into a small 
cup, counting every drop. 

“Here are the tears,” she said to her friend. 
“Use them, and may Khoda help your son.” 

“Oh, what a blessed woman you are,” cried the 
grateful neighbor, “to have such a son as Kerba 
Omar! We are all proud of him, and may Khoda 
bless his head.” 

The sick boy’s mother departed, believing that 
she had the sure remedy for her son, and, to her de¬ 
light, the fever left him the next day. All her neigh¬ 
bors rejoiced with her and blessed the tears of 
Muharram, but Omar said to himself, “It was not 
the tears, but let them believe what they will, for 
only Khoda knows the truth.” 

There was a constant procession in and out of 
Ibrahim’s courtyard for the next few days, but the 
one who came oftenest was Zalam, the father of 
Amina. He had never in his long life made a pil¬ 
grimage to Kerbela. 

“Did you bring many holy tears, my grandson? 

161 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
Did you bring enough to wash my body after I am 
dead?” 

Just how many times he asked this question of 
Omar no one knew, for the old man came every day. 

“I am blessed to have the mother of Omar for my 
daughter,” he would say to Amina. “He will take 
my bones to Kerbela and bury them in the conse¬ 
crated ground where holy men are buried. Let me 
bless his precious head. My grandson, my grand¬ 
son, I have not long to live! I am like a dead chinnar 
tree, standing with leafless branches, ready to fall in 
the first strong wind. Will you not take me after I 
am dead and bury my bones near the grave of 
your other grandfather? Khoda knows the end is 
near.” 

“How old are you, Grandfather?” asked Omar. 

“I can not tell, but I must be very old. My 
blood is thick and my eyes are dim. Promise me one 
thing, since you have been to Kerbela and know the 
way, that you will take my bones and bury them in 
the consecrated ground.” 

“If I live, Grandfather,” answered Omar. “For, 
who knows, I may die before you. How can we prom¬ 
ise to do this or that, when we are blind to what the 
future holds? When I strike my ball, does it know 
where it will go? But I know, and so does Khoda 
know what is to happen to each of us, for He is the 
Thrower of the Ball.” 

“What do you say?” cried the bewildered old 

162 


KERBA OMAR 

man. “Since you have gone to study with the Imam, 
my heart does not understand your words.” 

Ibrahim was standing by, and now he said, half 
proudly, half sadly, “I can follow his thoughts no 
longer, and neither can his mother. Truly, he was 
not born to be a tentmaker, like me.” 

Zalam lifted his hands in supplication over Omar’s 
head. “Khoda will keep you,” he said, “and you will 
take my bones to Kerbela.” 

Omar remained at the tentshop a few days longer, 
recounting his adventures to his eager parents. But 
soon it was time for him to return to his teacher’s 
household. The leaves of the chinnar trees were 
already falling one by one, turning many hues. 
Some were crimson, others were as yellow as saffron. 
Another year of study was opening for the young 
tentmaker, and what the new year would mean in 
his life, only Khoda knew. 



CHAPTER XIII 
THE FIRE OF SPRING 

Slowly and quietly the winter passed for Omar 
and his fellow students, sitting again at the feet of 
the Imam. Another autumn came and the three 
boys entered again the household of the Imam. Thus 
the third year of study together began and drew at 
last to its close. The three boys had now grown to 
the stature of manhood. Omar’s lean body and thin 
cheeks were filling out and the change was becoming 
to him. He was always thoughtful and sober, but 
now there were thoughts in his mind that he could not 
understand, longings that study could not satisfy. 

164 




THE FIRE OF SPRING 
What it was, Omar could not tell. It seemed that 
his soul cried for something that was not to be 
found in the Koran, nor even in the wonders of 
mathematics and the contemplation of the starry 
heavens. 

Spring had waked to life the Imam’s garden, and 
the climbing roses had covered the old mud wall 
with countless blossoms, white and red and golden. 
Omar heard the nightingales singing when night fell, 
and sometimes when he woke before the dawn. The 
joy of life was in their song, and Omar felt a long¬ 
ing burning within him as urgent as the outpouring 
of melody that spilled from the throats of the night¬ 
ingales. 

One late afternoon, after the walk with the Imam, 
Nizam and Hassan were playing a game of chess. 
Restlessly Omar turned over his books, but finally 
rose and descended again into the garden. The 
robins were singing their evening song to the setting 
sun, whose last golden rays fell through the silver 
poplar leaves. Omar beheld a slender veiled figure 
by the pool. He gazed in surprise, for he had never 
seen any women of the Imam’s household. As he 
gazed, the woman rose and came near him. She 
passed him silently, but for an instant glanced at 
him, and he found himself looking into Layli’s eyes. 
Then the dark lashes veiled them, and she silently 
moved toward the house, with the gentle aloofness 
and dignity that the veil had cast about her. 

165 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 

After their return from Kerbela, Omar and his 
companions had not seen Layli often. Indeed, all 
the past winter they had never found her in the 
garden. Now Omar watched her go, still standing 
dazed by the discovery that Layli was no longer a 
little girl. Layli would no more be seen without the 
flowing chadar, which hid the slender form, the 
pretty hands and graceful arms that Omar had 
often seen stretched to catch her ball. It covered 
even her lovely hair and a veil of fine white silk 
hid the tulip cheeks. 

The shadows were lengthening in the courtyard, 
and finally the sun disappeared, descending behind 
the hills and housetops of Naishapur. The clear 
voice of the azan giver sounded from a near-by 
mosque, reminding the people to give thanks to 
Khoda that another day was added to their lives. 
Thoughtfully Omar walked into the house, seeing 
not the familiar walls and curving stair, but the 
figure of Layli gracefully walking before him. He 
was recalling the form and face whose beauty was 
now hidden from him. Now he saw her more clearly 
than when his eyes had rested carelessly upon her, 
and the lovely picture filled his mind, painting itself 
upon his memory. 

Omar entered the study room as Hatim appeared 
with the evening meal. The three boys sat on the 
floor around the common bowl. Omar ate in silence. 
Even when the meal was finished he said nothing, 

166 


THE FIRE OF SPRING 
taking no part in the eager discussion that Nizam 
and Hassan were having over a passage of the Koran 
they had learned that day. 

“Why are you so silent?” queried Nizam. “True, 
you speak little and laugh less, but this evening you 
are not yourself.” 

“Perhaps,” said Omar. Then with both hands he 
rubbed his eyes, wondering whether they were the 
same eyes with which he had seen Laylf moons ago. 

“Sit down, Omar. Do not pace the floor so much. 
You are disturbing my thoughts!” shouted Hassan. 

But the restless Omar could not sit down to his 
books. He went on pacing the floor like a caged 
tiger. At last he walked to the balcony and looked 
down into the garden. Two nightingales were 
perched on a leafy branch of a poplar tree just be¬ 
neath him. One was feeding the other, and Omar 
watched them closely. They were facing each other, 
beak to beak, and one affectionately raised its little 
head and gently placed it on the other’s neck. Dark¬ 
ness fell and Omar could no longer see the birds, but 
only the dim shapes of the silent trees. All at once a 
great rejoicing came from the poplar tree. A night¬ 
ingale sang and sang as though his throat would 
burst for joy. Omar listened, but the sweet melody 
only depressed him more. A happy bird was singing 
to an unhappy boy. 

Omar left the balcony, again rubbing his eyes with 
his hands. 


167 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 

“Are these the same eyes that I had yesteryear? 
Then why did I not behold Layli and see her beauty 
while she was yet unveiled?” 

He remembered now the summer day when the 
Imam bade Layli bring sherbet to the three students 
in the garden. He had taken the cup from Laylf’s 
tray with scarcely a glance at the young cupbearer. 
Were Layli to offer him a cup of sherbet now, he 
would leave it untasted to drink with his eyes the 
beauty of the cupbearer. 

“Ah,” he thought, “if I were in a desert with but 
one cup of water, the desert would be Paradise if 
Layli were the cupbearer! If I might call her, as 
the Imam did that day, my sdJci .” The name was 
sweet to his ears and he repeated it. “Others call 
her Layli, but to me she shall be Saki.” 

He quickly threw himself down on his cotton- 
stuffed mattress. But there was no sleep. The grace¬ 
ful figure of his Saki moved before his closed eyes. 
Nizam and Hassan put out the lamp and were soon 
asleep, but the nightingale still sang, and Omar still 
tossed in his bed, until the weariness of mind and 
body at last brought rest. 

Omar woke to the song of robins, gladly greet¬ 
ing the dawn of another day. It was Friday, and the 
boys had no studies. Omar had waked early as 
usual, but he had no desire to make ready for break¬ 
fast. Reluctantly he arose and dressed himself, 

168 


THE FIRE OF SPRING 
emerging later even than the laggard Hassan. When 
breakfast was over, Nizam and Hassan resumed 
their chess battle, and Omar moodily paced the floor 
again, waiting till the hour when the Imam would 
summon his students to accompany him to the 
mosque. He stationed himself on the balcony where 
he had listened last night to the love song of the 
nightingale. It was silent now, but the garden was 
full of chirpings. Robins were running over the 
ground, stopping with quick jerks and listening 
with cocked heads to hear the stirring of worms be¬ 
neath the earth. 

The sun was rising high in the sky, topping the 
poplar trees and filling the air with golden warmth. 
A slender figure in a flowing chadar was walking 
under the rows of poplar trees by the rose-covered 
wall. Omar’s heart leaped out for joy. 

“It is Saki, it is Saki!” Yet how could he see her 
face to face and let her know his feeling? She might 
leave the garden without ever looking toward him. 
Nay, he would never leave the balcony, and he stood 
motionless, viewing his heart’s desire, watching every 
step that she was taking. At last she moved toward 
the house. 

“Will she not look up? In the name of Khoda, 
let her lift up her eyes toward me.” 

Khoda heard his prayer, for before she made her 
entrance into the house she looked up toward the 
balcony and saw Omar gazing at her with all the 

169 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
sadness that encompasses the despairing lover’s face. 
Their eyes met, then Laylf quickly disappeared into 
the house. Yet some joy was left in the heart of the 
young tentmaker. He had seen his beloved. And had 
been seen by her. 

Omar viewed the sun. “Perhaps coming out and 
walking under the rows of poplar trees is her habit. 
I shall watch at this time to-morrow.” 

The next day was Saturday, the first day of the 
week for the boys to begin their studies. There was 
a great conflict within Omar’s soul. His lessons must 
be learned, but Sakf now held a more important part 
in his thoughts than mathematics or the holy word 
of the Koran. It was far sweeter to be thinking of 
Sakf than to crowd his brain with the words of the 
Prophet. He placed his Koran before him, but looked 
at it blankly. At last the sunbeams told him that 
it was about the time when he had seen Sakf yester¬ 
day, walking under the poplar trees. He closed his 
Koran and quickly proceeded from the room, leav¬ 
ing his fellow students in great surprise. Omar had 
never left his studies in such fashion. 

“What is the trouble?” queried Nizam, but Omar 
had not time to answer. 

He made his way at once to the balcony, but he 
was only in time to see the veiled figure of Sakf mak¬ 
ing her entrance into her father’s house. 

“I have lost my great opportunity for the day, 

170 


THE FIRE OF SPRING 
Ah, if I had come sooner she would have seen me! 
The day is lost, the day is lost!” cried Omar. “She 
may never walk in the garden again.” 

Soberly the young tentmaker returned to his 
studies. The boys were concerned about Omar now, 
for they could not understand his sudden departure, 
and here he came back wearing the moody look that 
betokened black thoughts. But, before they could 
ask what was the matter, they heard the Imam com¬ 
ing. 

“Hush,” said Nizam, “the teacher is coming. Let 
us all be quiet.” 

The boys arranged themselves, even Hassan look¬ 
ing sober and serious. The great teacher moved to 
the center of the room and gravely seated himself. 
Nizam was the first to recite his lesson from the 
Koran and he did well. 

“Now, Omar, let me hear what you have done 
with the lesson for to-day. This is one of the most 
important chapters in the Koran.” 

Omar looked down in confusion. This time he had 
not memorized even the first words of his lesson. 

“Master, I do not know my lesson for to-day,” he 
said humbly. 

“What can this mean, what can this mean? Are 
you going to disappoint me after this long time?” 
cried the Imam, looking sharply at Omar. “This is 
the first time you have not learned your lesson per¬ 
fectly. What is the trouble?” 

171 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 

“I am your sacrifice,” responded Omar, “but my 
thoughts have not been on my lesson. May Khoda 
help me to do better to-morrow.” 

“I am glad to hear you say that,” said his teacher, 
and he turned to Hassan. 

Hassan was now in his glory, for this time he 
would excel Omar in his recitation of the Koran, a 
thing he had never done before. When the morning 
lessons were over, the teacher left the room, but at 
the door he turned to Omar and gave him a search¬ 
ing look. The boys were quiet for a while. Hassan 
went on with his caligraphy, taking out his pens 
with an important air, for he had distinguished him¬ 
self that morning by surpassing Omar. Nizam re¬ 
opened his Koran with a wondering look at Omar. 
For Omar not to do as well as Hassan in the Koran 
was most puzzling to the soul of Nizam. 

Omar was now ashamed and angry with himself. 
Why had he let himself be so overcome by his feel¬ 
ing for Sakf that he had no thoughts for his lessons? 
And what if the Imam found out that his student de¬ 
sired his daughter more than his teaching? 

“Ah,” thought Omar, “the Koran is the book of 
wisdom, but Sakf is sweet! ” And Sakf again took 
hold of his mind. 

Next morning Omar stationed himself on the bal¬ 
cony long before he thought it was time for Sakf 
to make her appearance. “Will she walk in the gar- 

172 


THE FIRE OF SPRING 
den this morning?” he thought to himself. “Did 
she not come yesterday and the day before yester¬ 
day? Khob , I shall stay here and watch.” And he 
forgot his lessons. The one great desire of his life 
now was to behold his Sakf walking under the rows 
of poplar trees. 

Omar watched a long time before he heard the 
creaking of the door and light steps sounding. 

“At last, at last there she is!” Omar’s heart leaped 
for joy. His eyes followed Saki everywhere she 
went. Now she paused by a blooming rosebush. She 
touched the velvet petals with her pretty fingers, 
and stopped to breathe the fragrance. How for¬ 
tunate were the roses, Omar thought, to feel Saki’s 
gentle touch. He watched her as she went from 
flower to flower. He saw her pluck a crimson rose. 

With rose in hand she proceeded, walking along 
the row of poplar trees. Omar watched her every 
movement, never taking his eyes away from her. At 
last she came toward the house, taking small, grace¬ 
ful steps. She was nearly under the balcony. She 
looked up and saw Omar watching her. Their eyes 
again met. She smiled and dropped the rose, then 
hastened into the house. 

Omar quickly descended into the garden and 
picked up the flower that only a moment ago had 
been held in Saki’s hand. He held it tenderly as 
though it were a divine gift from Khoda. He walked 
into the study room, covering the rose in the palm of 

173 


THE YOUNG TENT MAKER 
his hand, lest his fellow students see it. He was nearly 
bursting with joy such as he had never before ex¬ 
perienced. Sakf had smiled and given him a rose. 
Said had spoken to him with her eyes and there was 
much hope in the young tentmaker’s heart. He 
turned to his lessons with the confidence of the lover 
who has won the favor of his beloved. He opened 
his Koran and placed the flower within its pages. 

“Khoda knows,” he thought, “this rose is holy. 
It is the word of Khoda and not this book, for the 
book has no beauty that can compare with the love¬ 
liness of this flower.” 

There was but a short time until the Imam would 
come to hear his students recite, and Nizam and 
Hassan had been diligently studying all the while 
Omar was watching from the balcony. But Omar 
was not afraid of making another failure. He read 
the chapter quickly and every word wrote itself 
instantly on his mind. Never had his wonderful 
memory performed such a miracle. With one glance, 
it seemed, he had memorized the entire chapter. 

“In the name of Khoda,” he shouted, closing the 
Koran over Sakfs rose, “I could learn ten chapters 
this morning!” And he laughed for very joy. 

Nizam and Hassan looked up, startled. 

“You are becoming foolish,” said Nizam gravely. 
“Yesterday you wore a black look and scarcely 
spoke to us. Now you are laughing at nothing. 
What has happened to you?” 

174 


THE FIRE OF SPRING 

“Ah, maybe you will know some day,” said Omar 
with an air of superior knowledge. 

At that instant, steps were heard in the corridor, 
and the Imam walked in. 

“How are my students this morning?” And he 
gave an anxious look at Omar. 

“We are all well,” said Nizam, who was the spokes¬ 
man. 

“ Khob , begin the Koran,” said the teacher, with¬ 
out wasting any more words. 

Nizam, always in earnest mood when he recited 
the Koran, repeated his lesson well. The great 
teacher knew that it was not necessary for Nizam 
to recite the whole chapter. It would be better to 
stop him in the middle to give more time to Omar. 

“Now, Omar, you will proceed. In the name of 
Khoda, you will do better than you did yesterday.” 

Omar lost no time in beginning. Looking neither 
right nor left, he went through his lesson like a well 
trained parrot. His perfect recitation, after the 
great failure of the day before, astonished the Imam. 

“A change has come over you, Omar. What has 
happened?” 

Omar blushed. It was the rose from Saki that had 
worked the great change. 

“Unusual boy,” thought the Imam to himself, as 
he walked out of the study room. “Why, by the will 
of Khoda, he may even surpass Nizam in knowing 
the Koran.” 


175 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 

When the shadows were lengthening and the birds 
in the treetops were beginning their evening song, 
the students were walking under the rows of poplar 
trees. Omar paused now and again to look at the 
rosebush from which Layli had plucked the rose that 
morning. 

A great barking of the dog heralded some one’s 
approach. The gatekeeper was opening the gate and 
two veiled figures, followed by Hatim, walked into the 
courtyard. Omar’s heart beat quickly. The slighter 
figure was Layli, the other probably her mother. 

“Look, look!” cried Nizam in surprise. “Why, it 
was Layli! Is it possible that Layli is already wear¬ 
ing the chadar?” 

“Khob, have you not heard the news?” spoke Has- 
san. 

“What news?” inquired Omar. 

“I was in my grandfather’s house last Juma, and 
heard that Layli is already betrothed.” 

A spear went through the heart of the young 
tentmaker. 

“To whom?” asked Nizam with interest. 

“To Ali Akbar of Meshed.” 

“And who is he?” cried Omar wildly. 

“He is the great-grandson of the holy Imam Riza, 
may peace be on his soul,” answered Hassan im¬ 
portantly. 

Omar spoke no more. All hope was taken from 
him. How could he, the son of a tentmaker, have 

176 


THE FIRE OF SPRING 
ever hoped to win Lay lip For the first time in his life 
he despised the trade of his fathers. And what good 
was it to him that he had left the tentshop to become 
a student? A poor student could not ask for the 
Imam’s daughter. The fame and wealth that his 
learning was to win in that glorious future of which 
the three boys sometimes talked would come too late. 

That night a white moon ascended the sky. Nizam 
and Hassan were asleep, but Omar tossed from side 
to side, while wild thoughts raced through his mind. 

“My Sakf will not be happy in Meshed. I alone 
can make her happy. Ah, Khoda, take away this 
Ali Akbar! Strike him dead.” 

The brilliant moonbeams had formed a white circle 
on the floor, and they drew Omar to the balcony. In 
the garden below, every leaf and flower gleamed 
silver. Everything was quiet, not a breath could be 
heard. Even the love song of the nightingales had 
ceased in the branches. Omar descended into the 
garden, stepping softly so as not to rouse the great 
watchdog asleep by the courtyard gate. He lay 
down upon the soft grass beneath the willow tree, 
whose sweeping branches trailed in the pool. The 
gentle breeze cooled his hot forehead. 

Even before he heard their sound, he felt the 
coming of light footsteps. Across the grass they 
fell so softly, yet at every step Omar’s heart leaped. 
Sakf was coming. His heart was beating so wildly 
that it nearly suffocated him. His very joy was like 

177 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
a heavy burden. The footsteps came nearer. He 
felt Said’s presence, though he did not dare to open 
his eyes. He felt soft fingers on his forehead. . . . 

The dreamer woke. The moon-bathed garden lay 
quiet and empty about him, and Omar’s heart knew 
the last depth of his despair. Saki, the tulip-cheeked 
Saki, could be only a dream for him. Slowly, with 
dew-covered clothing, he rose and returned in the 
moonlight to the room where Nizam and Hassan still 
slept. 



CHAPTER XIV 

THE MOVING FINGER WRITES 

It was a day of great excitement in the house¬ 
hold of Imam Mowaffak, for his daughter, Layli, 
was to be given in marriage to Ali Akbar, a great- 
grandson of Imam Riza of Meshed, the greatest 
of the Persian saints. Kerba Hatim, the faithful 
steward, had risen early that morning to make prep¬ 
aration for the coming of the cavalcade from Meshed 
to take away Laylf. All morning there was a bustling 
about, and fine rugs were spread in the courtyard, 
where the chief members of the escort from Meshed 
would be received. 


179 









THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 

The Imam had risen early also, and was walking 
under the trees in his garden, viewing the flowers 
heavily laden with morning dew. He walked slowly, 
for he was growing old and feeble, but his heart was 
glad and he gave thanks to Khoda that he had 
lived long enough to see his youngest daughter 
given in marriage to the son of such a celebrated 
family. 

“Khob, Layli will be married into the family of 
Imam Riza, and that is something to be proud of. 
This is the day her bridegroom sends the escort. 
They should be here soon.” 

To-day the courtyard gate stood wide open, and 
soon the Imam’s friends began arriving, among them 
all the dignitaries of the mosques. Hadji Mukhtar, 
the lord of Naishapur himself, came to help receive 
the party from Meshed. 

Hatim, from the housetop, had seen, far away, 
a horseman with a spear on his shoulder dashing 
through the streets and making directly toward the 
Imam’s gate. Excitedly Hatim descended and an¬ 
nounced the news to his master. The Imam himself 
went to the gate to welcome the emissary of the 
bridegroom. 

“Khoda be praised, is this the house of Imam 
Mowaffak?” inquired the horseman, halting at the 
gate. 

“In the name of Khoda, I am the Imam and this 
is my house.” 


180 


THE MOVING FINGER WRITES 

“I bring you greetings from the Imam of Meshed, 
to whose son your daughter is betrothed. An escort 
of a hundred horsemen is following, to carry the 
bride to Meshed.” 

“You have come on the pupil of my eye,” said the 
Imam. “Enter in the name of Khoda.” His two 
feeble hands came together, and instantly Hatim ap¬ 
proached to take the horse. 

Now the chosen friends of the Imam mounted and 
rode out to meet the bridegroom’s friends on the 
way and conduct them with ceremony into the city. 
With the sunlight flashing on their spears and jave¬ 
lins, the hundred horsemen from Meshed entered the 
city gate and proudly marched through the streets. 
All the people of Naishapur crowded to watch the 
procession, proud that such a magnificent escort had 
come to take their Imam’s daughter to her husband’s 
house. The horsemen were divided into small groups 
and went to be guests of prominent families. Has- 
san’s grandfather looked after the comfort of ten 
men. Being rich and powerful, he could have taken 
care of them all, but he was willing to share the 
honor of entertaining the visitors with other friends 
of the Imam. 

From the balcony, Omar saw the cavalcade enter 
the courtyard. He had not slept that night. His 
mind was filled with bitter and rebellious thoughts. 
“It is fate, it is fate,” he had repeated to himself 
all night. “Ah, Khoda, if I had the power to change 

181 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
the scheme of things, these horsemen would never 
approach the walls of Naishapur!” 

He stood silently gazing, as through a mist, into 
the courtyard. He saw Nizam and Hassan walking 
among the guests and making themselves useful. 

The Imam, though occupied with his guests, noted 
the absence of his favorite student, and approached 
Nizam with some concern to ask why Omar was not 
enjoying the festivities of the day. 

“Omar is not well, Master. He said that he slept 
badly and he has eaten no food this morning.” 

“Go bring him down. If he is ill and can not come, 
send for Hakim Ismail.” 

Nizam entered the balcony where Omar stood gaz¬ 
ing sadly upon the scene below. 

“Omar, our teacher bids you come down, but if 
you are not well, Hakim Ismail will come to you.” 

“My head is weary,” answered Omar, “and my 
star does not shine to-day, but I do not need the 
physician. What does the Imam want of me?” 

“He wishes you to enjoy the entertainment and 
behold the important guests from Meshed. It is not 
good for you to stay here alone. Come down.” 

“What is, is,” Omar said and silently walked with 
his friend, Nizam, into the courtyard. Proudly the 
Imam presented his favorite student to the Imam of 
Meshed. But Omar, who once would have coveted 
the honor of beholding the great man, bowed before 
him with bitterness in his heart. This was Ali 

182 


THE MOVING FINGER WRITES 
Akbar’s father, this was the man who had stolen 
Sakf from him, who was taking her away for his 
son. 

Early the next morning, the horsemen gathered 
in the courtyard of the Imam, after having spent 
the night as guests in the homes of prominent Naisha- 
purians. They kept coming until the whole court¬ 
yard was full of men. 

Omar would not go down, for his heart was too 
heavy with sorrow. He stood gazing from the bal¬ 
cony upon the brilliant scene in the courtyard. Be¬ 
hind the guarded doors of the women’s quarters, 
Laylf was being prepared for her journey. At last 
two white horses, ornamented with velvet trappings 
and shining golden tassels, and carrying a takhtar- 
avan , approached the entrance of the women’s quar¬ 
ters. Omar’s heart throbbed. His Sakf was coming 
for the last time into the courtyard. He saw her 
walk from her father’s house, supported by her 
aunt, the Imam’s sister, who was to accompany her 
to her new home and represent the Imam’s family 
at the marriage. 

Omar’s gaze was fastened upon the slender veiled 
figure of Laylf. Her chadar covered her entirely, 
concealing the rich silk and velvet of her wedding 
robes. He could not even see her eyes, for all her 
face was veiled. 

Kerba Hatim and another manservant helped 

183 


THE YOUNG TENT MAKER 
Layli and her aunt into the takhtaravan, and now 
everything was ready. The horsemen were already 
mounted. The leader shouted, “Make way, make 
way for the queen!” And he led the cavalcade out 
of the courtyard. Layli and her aunt, hidden in the 
taJchtaravan, were in the middle of the procession, 
safely guarded. 

Omar watched on the balcony until the last of the 
horsemen had disappeared. “Saki is gone, Saki is 
gone!” he cried. “My garden is empty.” And he 
threw himself on his bed and wept in distraction 
until, exhausted in mind and body, he fell asleep. 

Omar knew that all his tears and sleepless nights 
could not bring Layli back. Very cleverly he kept 
his feelings from the Imam and Hassan, but Nizam 
had begun to suspect, and at last Omar confided to 
him his despair. 

“May Khoda be kind to you,” he said, “and never 
afflict you with such punishment.” 

Nizam gazed sadly at Omar. “My friend,” he 
said, “no one can change the ways of Khoda and it 
is no use to brood over what you can not have. It 
is better to take up your studies again, lest the Imam 
discover the cause of your illness.” 

“I will do my best,” said Omar. “What will be, 
will be.” And he busied himself with his books and 
the science of the stars. 

Weeks passed. Omar was yet unable to center all 

184 


THE MOVING FINGER WRITES 
his attention on his studies, but his lessons were 
faithfully done, and the Imam was well pleased again 
with his progress. 

At last winter came and Omar went no more upon 
the balcony. That made him feel a little better, for 
every morning he had stood there and looked down, 
imagining that he was seeing his Saki among the 
trees and flowers. Now the roses were withered with 
the frost, and the trees stood bare and lonely against 
the cold sky. Snow fell heavily and chilling winds 
scraped together the boughs of the poplar trees. 
Naishapur had had a mild winter the year before, 
and now the cold seemed doubly severe. Day by 
day the Imam grew more feeble, and could no longer 
walk in the garden. There was no strength in his 
limbs, and his hands shook so that he could hardly 
hold his Koran. 

Now he missed a day visiting his students. 

“What can be the matter?” cried Nizam. “Our 
teacher did not come to-day.” 

Just then Hatim appeared. 

“The Imam is not well,” said Kerba Hatim. “He 
sends me to tell you that Nizam will hear you recite 
the Koran this day. Omar will help you in mathe¬ 
matics, and Hassan will inspect your handwriting.” 

“May Khoda prolong our master’s life,” said 
Nizam. 

“He is getting old and no one can tell what this 

185 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
cold may do to him,” responded Hassan. “ Khob, 
if the Imam can not live long, what are we to do?” 

“We have learned much from him,” said Omar, 
“and we should be grateful for that.” 

“Another year, then another and another; that is 
all,” he thought. “There is an end to life and what 
does it matter? Do not kings die? Did not Jamshid 
die like any other man?” Now, although it was his 
own teacher, the thought of death did not disturb 
Omar. To him, the loss of Saki was greater than 
any loss that death could inflict. 

Nizam heard the boys recite the chapter from the 
Koran, and Omar listened to their work in mathe¬ 
matics, and Hassan inspected their penmanship. 
They all agreed that they were doing well. 

Next day the boys gathered at their regular time 
in the study room. Very faintly they heard steps. 

“In Khoda’s name, the Imam is coming,” said 
Hassan. 

“Then he is not so ill as Hatim made us to fear,” 
said Omar thankfully. 

The door opened and the Imam, supported by his 
ivory cane, made his entrance. The boys stood and 
paid him the respect due their teacher and an old 
man. 

“My boys, sit down,” he said. “You are the light 
of my eyes. If I die to-day I will feel that I have 
done my duty. Now, Nizam, read your lesson.” 

186 


THE MOVING FINGER WRITES 

Nizam repeated the chapter without mistake. 
Omar did well, and Hassan also. The Imam’s hands 
were trembling and his voice was shaking, but as a 
true teacher he would die teaching, if he could. 

“I can not stay here long this time. I am very 
weak,” and he began coughing. “If Khoda could 
see His way to keep me alive until Nurooz, I could be 
with you for another year,” he said. 

“Nurooz is only a moon away,” responded Omar, 
“and the spring will soon be here.” 

“Yes, beloved, but many things can happen within 
a moon.” 

The Imam lingered, seeming loath to leave his 
students this time. He bade them go on with their 
studies, and remained a little longer, watching the 
three heads bent over their work, and meditating 
upon the future of these chosen students, the future 
he had so earnestly planned for, but would not him¬ 
self see. 

“The mark of greatness is written in their faces,” 
he thought, “but I am worrying about Hassan. The 
boy is clever and ambitious, but he lacks industry 
and piety. And cleverness and ambition without 
discipline of spirit can be dangerous. I have done 
my best for him, and his future is in Khoda’s keep- 
mg.” 

The sober look in the deep eyes lightened as he 
next turned his gaze upon Nizam. “Nizam’s future 
is clearly marked,” he thought. “He has a mind 

187 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 
single to the law. The zeal with which he applies 
himself to the study of the Koran indicates that the 
boy will become a great judge and an able adminis¬ 
trator. He will serve Iran well and be rewarded 
with honor.” 

The Imam’s gaze rested longest upon Omar, pene¬ 
trating the sensitive and restless mind that would al¬ 
ways seek after truth and find it not, for no one but 
Khoda could know the truth. 

“Omar is my favorite. I fear he will always be 
poor, for his spirit will always search after the un¬ 
known, giving little heed to riches and power. He 
will surpass me in the study of mathematics and 
astronomy. May Khoda bless him and advance him 
toward the complete life.” 

The Imam rose, leaning heavily upon his ivory 
cane. “Khoda keep you until to-morrow,” he said 
and feebly walked out. 

A chilly wind hovered over Naishapur that night, 
bringing with it cold rain and sleet. The Imam did 
not rise at his regular hour. The hakim bashie was 
called at once, but could not stop the coughing nor 
relieve the pains that were sapping little by little 
the meager strength of the Imam. The struggle was 
too much, and, at cockcrow in the middle of the 
night, the soul of the Imam, the great teacher, was 
loosed from its earthly prison. 

In the morning the news spread throughout the 

188 


THE MOVING FINGER WRITES 

city. Azans were given from the minarets of every 
mosque. 

“Khoda is just, Khoda is just! Khoda has taken 
the soul of the Imam, may Khoda give him peace and 
rest. Khoda is just, Khoda is just!” the azan givers 
repeated again with melodious tones that brought 
tears from the devout Naishapurians. 

A great crowd, with sad faces and heavy hearts, 
gathered in the courtyard of Imam Mowalfak. Four 
mullahs from the Juma Masj id came and took charge 
of the body of the Imam. They washed it with the 
precious tears which had been brought from Kerbela. 
In the afternoon, the funeral procession departed 
for Meshed, with the coffin of the Imam, on a ladder, 
shrouded with black velvet and carried by two black 
horses. The Imam was to be buried near the shrine 
of the holy Imam Riza. 

Omar, Nizam and Hassan, and several members 
of the household, followed the coffin for some dis¬ 
tance. Then the cavalcade stopped to have the sor¬ 
rowing relatives and students take another look at 
their departed master, before they returned home. 

“The tears from Kerbela could not save our 
teacher,” said Omar, as he walked sadly with his 
friends. “Khoda knows this was his day to go.” 

Nizam said nothing, and Hassan was also grief- 
stricken so that he could not speak. 

The boys gathered in the room where they had 
studied together for four years. 

189 


THE YOUNG TENTMAKER 

“What now, what now?” spoke Nizam. 

“Khoda only knows,” responded Omar. 

“Who knows the ways of Khoda P” said Hassan 
solemnly. “But we know it has been said that who¬ 
ever studied under the Imam was sure to become a 
great man. Maybe all of us will not become great, 
but one of us at least is likely to attain fame. Let 
us make a pledge that whoever becomes rich and 
powerful among us will share his wealth and honors 
with the other two.” 

“I will never be great,” spoke Omar sadly. “I 
must go back to my tentmaking, for I have no money 
to pursue my studies and no means to win the favor 
of the powerful.” 

“Who knows?” said Hassan. 

“Hassan is right,” said Nizam. “Let us make the 
pledge for the sake of our friendship.” And in turn 
they solemnly took the vow. 

The hour had come for the three students to de¬ 
part for the last time from the house of the Imam. 
Nizam and Hassan were to return to their parents 
in distant cities. The boys gathered their belong¬ 
ings. Omar embraced his friends and said, “Khoda 
fest (God be with you).” And he descended into the 
courtyard. The great watchdog rose from his corner 
and trotted up to Omar, who gave him a farewell 
pat on his head and passed through the gate. 

He walked slowly through the snow. Memories of 

190 


THE MOVING FINGER WRITES 
the great teacher rose to his mind with every step 
along the familiar streets where the Imam had walked 
with his students. At the gate of the Juma Masj id, 
Omar paused, remembering his first meeting with the 
Imam. He lifted his head toward the great minaret. 
There was the azan giver, about to call the people 
to prayer. The sun was sinking behind the house¬ 
tops, and the blackbirds were perching in the 
branches of the chinnar and poplar trees for the 
night as Omar reached his father’s gate. 

“Omar, my son,” said Ibrahim, “I am glad you 
are at home.” 

Amina’s heart was melting for joy to have her 
son with her again. 

Next morning, with sad and grateful memories of 
his great teacher, Omar sat at the loom in his father’s 
tentshop. 



TAMAM 

Many moons waxed and waned and one day Omar 
heard that his old school friend Nizam had been made 
grand vizier of Persia. Omar was still poor, still 
making tents for a living and continuing his studies 
in obscurity. He appeared before the grand vizier, 
who did not need to be reminded of the boyhood 
pledge and gladly offered Omar a high position in 
the government. But Omar declined. He desired 
no power or great place, but wished only for a small 
income, that he might have a garden of his own and 
give his time to study and teaching. 

192 




TAMAM 

Meanwhile Hassan, who had not made a success 
of his worldly ambitions, lost no time in seeking the 
grand vizier and demanding a share in his good 
fortune. He was rewarded with the governorship 
of a province, but still was not satisfied, and his 
greed and thirst for power caused his own downfall. 
He attempted to seize the throne, and the grand 
vizier was one of the first victims of his plots. The 
rebellion failed, and Hassan came to a bitter and dis¬ 
graceful end. 

Thus both Nizam and Hassan perished in the 
prime of life. But Omar lived to a great age in his 
beloved city of Naishapur, winning renown as a 
teacher and enjoying the favor of the king. The 
king who showered favors upon Omar is only a name 
now, and Nizam and Hassan are gone and forgotten, 
but the fame of Omar Khayyam, the great scholar, 
teacher and poet, is even brighter after eight hun¬ 
dred years. 



































































































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